


What Comes Next - Part III/V

by Persephone



Series: Willing to Take the Risk [28]
Category: Valentine's Day (2010)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Drama & Romance, Fluff and Angst, M/M, NFL Players in a bar, Oprah, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23987773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: Sean goes up to Chicago for Oprah's interview... and at last comes full circle. Holden meets some NFL players.
Relationships: Sean Jackson/Holden Wilson
Series: Willing to Take the Risk [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/12943
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

“Sean is gonna do what now?” Timone asked, not even bothering to look at him. “Move to LA? Are you serious. Sean, you got something going on there we should know about?”

He hadn’t. Neither had he answered, not believing he needed to explain himself to anyone. Especially a decision like the one he’d just made. Not to a couple of the guys talking just then who should have had more self-respect and kept their mouths shut. He would never understand why some people thought cynicism cute.

“What’s your agent say?”

_Do what you gotta do,_ had been Paula’s sole comment. _Just get comfortable. Cause you got a lotta work and a whole lotta career ahead of you, and this ain’t Minnesota._

That had been good enough for him. Good enough to easily ignore this bunch, if Paula wasn’t having a freak out over his decision to ditch living full time in San Diego.

“Sean’s not gonna be the only player living up in LA,” Vance had said. “Why’s everyone on his ass? He can live wherever he wants.”

“Yeah, but Sean?” Timone insisted. “Sean loves the coast. You ever been up in his townhouse? Sean gets up, first thing in the morning, makes himself a power juice. . . and stands there staring out at the water for like— like you could complete an entire ESPN Facetime Interview and Sean wouldn’t have even turned around to see what’s up.”

“Fuck you know about what Sean does first thing in the morning?”

Timone chuckled. “I’m telling you. And you can’t compare LA to San Diego, just in terms of pure coastal living. Sean knows it, _I_ know it. The sunsets here make LA’s look tacky, the weather even more so. Not to talk of the boat rides, the water, even the coast itself. And we can afford the choicest spots. Instead Sean’s gonna go up to LA and the traffic and the noise and all that pretension? That sound like Sean to you?” Timone had turned. “Sean, that sound like you to you?”

Timone could wait forever for an answer. It was either he got out, went somewhere he could be safe, be _gone_ when he wasn’t needed to be seen, or he would lose his soul. Timone could talk. It was his straight world, meanwhile he was just trying to survive. So he was out of San Diego, and no one, past his family and his reps, who were based in LA anyway, would even know his home address.

He wouldn’t date in LA, didn’t need to know the hangouts or be seen with a look, wink and nod anywhere. The town was full of celebrities, and he’d already spoken with a couple of the older guys—as long as he kept his head down, LA was among the safest places he could chose to live in the country. When it came to certain, private things, they’d explained, paparazzi were only playing a game, with an unspoken rule that you had to opt in to participate.

That had been all he’d needed to hear and he’d been out of there.

For years since, he’d prided himself on having gotten it exactly right. After the regular season, getting the hell away from the influential and connected. The ones who held the strings. The ones to whom you could not say no, forget who you thought you were. You were Sean Jackson to your colleagues, to the sports press, to the media. A sensation from college worth hundreds of millions of dollars to the system—from team franchises to broadcasting networks to ad agencies and product companies, you were money in the bank. _“Sean?”_ a subset of his colleagues could be heard saying any day of the week, all of them closeted and perhaps hoping for a miracle. _“Sean can write his own production.”_ Sure. Unless otherwise.

Not that, even years in, living in his LA cocoon, he hadn’t still continued falling for some of it. During the season it could sometimes feel like an aphrodisiac—in rooms with men who could make the world feel safe and controllable. Comfortable even. Shielded by them, you were afforded any kind of protection you desired. Got the media not only off your back but singing your tune, so that no one wondered beyond a passing curiosity why there had been no girlfriends, no ex-wives. Why would there be, when even family members were hard to access. Privacy for the reclusive Midwestern quarterback—everywhere, and at all times. You wanted access, you played _that_ game. Resulting in an image packaged so expertly that not even your paid representation had a clue. Not even your best friend in the world.

Paula slinging back after the fact that she had known was bullshit. Suspicion wasn’t knowing anything.

Faced prospectively with a lifetime of pressing forward on his own, wasn’t that kind of protection worth some sacrifice?

Not to him. Each person knew their own tolerances. Some guys were tough as hell, able to withstand all kinds of onslaughts. He couldn’t. Those advantages against his person had left him shaken. He would rather be alone. 

Even without those two difficult weeks in Johnston with Holden, forgotten memories getting churned up hard, he had always known he wanted things differently. Had always been aware of the potency of an aphrodisiac—a great evening alone in candlelight with someone he had feelings for, great sex—as nothing more than a shaky play on offense; no amount of praying and hoping was going to get you past defense. Your play was going to collapse, and collapse hard. It was either the real thing or a Hail Mary. At least for him. Not that he had never hoped for magic like any red-blooded human, but. . . Well, he was Sean Jackson, and he had always been able to keep his feet firmly on the ground.

Which was where Holden Wilson came in.

—

No more cool spring mornings, he thought distractedly, pounding through a hot morning run, it was almost June.

A few feet away, the Pacific, soft and grey, smooth and constant, washed up in its endless rhythm. After so many years, still holding all the promises that had brought him north to his safe haven. And now associated with so many memories—anger, fights, deep confusion. And so much love. Enough to sink everything into itself. Now also associated with the vast house across the coast, from which angle he couldn’t see at the moment, but whose whitewashed patios seemed to stayed on the periphery of his vision. Over there where truth and reality partied.

Pacing in long, steady strides along the water, absorbing the sounds of his own breathing filling his headspace, his footfalls on the soft summer sand, he was at last thinking of that decision five years ago.

The dirt kicked up following his departure from San Diego had just been drama of the moment. It hadn’t actually mattered and no one really cared. Players lived all over the country regardless of their team’s location, and though some fans at Qualcomm hadn’t loved the idea—there had been a few _Go back to LA!_ placards in the stands—his relocation hadn’t really been extraordinary. And they’d made playoffs that year, so there’d likewise been heartfelt, placard-based apologies later in the season. It had all been good entertainment.

No one had cared, that was, except the ones who did. Cared, and noticed.

_Cared._ What a loose word. People who had only cared because he’d dared to free himself from their dark world. He remembered their looks of disbelief and then suspicion. All that time, money and effort put into grooming and owning their rising superstar and now he was showing signs of. . . independent thinking? _They_ told him what to think, when he could sit, stand, smile or say no. Was it that they had been too lenient with him?

Throughout the years, they’d always been careful and never crossed any lines. But they hadn’t needed to. Being closeted and a public figure, his entire world had been a prison and they his benevolent jailers. Just as Holden’s friend KV had outright said that morning at Cavanaugh, they certainly knew what they wished to do with someone like him.

What followed that afternoon of his announcement to team management had been a lot of immediate “reaching out”—sitting him through private conversations with “concerned individuals” to see how they could “assist.” Didn’t he want to remain in San Diego where they could keep an eye on him? Make sure to keep the press always on _his_ side of the line; especially seeing as his star was daily rising and “maintaining” was going to prove harder for him? And so on. God knew they had tried. But he’d been done. From out of college in Wisconsin to rookie year in Minnesota to captaining a top-tier team in San Diego, it had progressively gotten worse. And if indeed his star was rising, then he hated even thinking what his life might become. LA had become a sanctuary, and each moment’s delay only cemented his decision to leave.

Looking back, he knew he had ruffled quite a few feathers, raised a number of powerful hackles. But he hadn’t cared—he had been younger, maybe less cautious, and he had been gone.

And what bliss. For years, what simple happiness.

But now— running from powerful men who could influence the course of events around him? Control his world? Welcome to the circle of life. Between Holden and Alastair Wilson, there wasn’t enough air in the world to laugh at himself. From the boiling pot straight into the fire indeed.

But he knew it wasn’t fair, that it was just his heartache talking. From day one Holden had only ever offered himself in true what you see is what you get mode—whether in words or actions. Holden had never lied to him. Never tried to trick him. Never seen him as a walking puppet instead of a human being with feelings—the way the men in _his_ past had made him feel from morning till night. Even when Holden had wanted to explore a more physical side to their intimacy, he had witnessed the worry in Holden’s eyes, Holden’s struggle with it, and he had understood instantly the difference between everyone else and the one you loved. 

What had seemed impossible to give his entire adult life, he had been willing to let Holden unzip in the time to exhale.

Like LA, Holden was an option he had chosen. He had known what he was looking at when he saw Holden at that fundraiser, even if not to its full extent. But hadn’t his common sense tossed that hot business card, told him to sit his ass home. But he had wanted it. Everything he had been looking at, he had wanted. For the first time in his life had wanted to be stripped bare. Those lines he had known existed, sexually, that he had been unwilling to let anyone cross, he had looked forward to the day _he_ would.

So he couldn’t now claim to have not known what he was doing.

But now that he had been shown the full picture, complete with the clear warning tones Alastair had asked Craig to make sure were sounded, what excuse could he give for continuing to walk straight into the fire? Great sex? Dinner by candlelight? That the man _was_ a living, walking aphrodisiac, and put an asterisk on what he’d said earlier, there _were_ shaky plays on offense that could just push on through. He’d simply presumed he could never sell himself for such things. Evidently, it depended on who was buying.

—

Dropping against the backrest of his workbench, he brought the towel up over his face and let out a final gasp. That was it for the morning. All done. So rather than move off to start his day, he instead sat there inhaling deeply from the towel, being the same one Holden had used to rub him down a couple weeks back, imagining he was still getting a faint whiff of Holden’s scent. Having a full body recall of how it had felt, Holden obeying his call to come over. Sitting in his lap. Allowing him to put his hand down his trousers and experience himself a solid fantasy before Holden had to go to work. How Holden had sat there licking come off his chest while softening in his hand, nearly killing him with excitement.

Sighing, he remained still. 

Maybe this was just his portion in life, as the saying went. How it was meant to be. Maybe there was something about him that attracted men of a certain kind. If he wanted things differently, maybe the change had to come from him.

It was also possible he was actually just having a low-key panic attack in dread of Oprah’s interview. Rookie days seemed to be shimmering before his eyes, waiting on the stone entry ramp to the field, hearing echoing calls of names from the Eagles defense and knowing those weren’t coming from the TV on ESPN, but from the stadium’s PA system, as the defensive lineup he was about to face.

He sighed once more as his phone started buzzing. Kara’s office with a reminder for that morning’s prep meetings.

He’d spent the morning before going on his run reading through the journal he kept. All it had done was given him assurance of the one thing he knew—it was time and he wasn’t ready. 

Not only was he not ready, but he probably about to throw a pass that would be rewatched and mocked hard enough to make any hall of infamy. _After having pioneered being openly gay in the NFL, and quite successfully Sean — finding love with the scion of one of the most prominent American families of the twentieth century — are you a life coach to your fellow NFL players by now?_ There’d be lighthearted studio laughter. And weird questions like that.

_Oprah,_ he thought, getting up and aiming the towel for a laundry bin. _Here I come._

•


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Manassian, Rachel told him when he got to the office that morning, wanted him to cancel his lunch if he could, and join him in West Hollywood for lunch.

“Did he say why?”

She shook her head. “Perhaps he heard me over the ether telling you to get out of the office more and enjoy planning for your big day.”

He got the hint, told her to cancel his lunch and continued into his office to go catch up on Marissa’s latest emails.

—

Kara’s office was stuffed with people. Reps from the LGBTQ organizations who’d been prepping him for months via all modern forms of communication. Going over questions and talking points covering everything from the basics to current issues, all so he wouldn’t go sound like an ignorant dumbass on TV. Oprah’s producers would also be teleconferencing before it was all over, double sure-ing that he didn’t in fact sound like an ignorant dumbass before they put him on TV.

Kara had forgone using Glare PR’s conference room, for reasons he felt only she knew. But once he arrived at her office, and took in the atmosphere of her already—always—junky office, he realized she did know what she was doing. It was a cozy slumber party in there: everyone in casual clothes, the beverages, snacks and pastries he’d had delivered earlier already everywhere among stacks of napkins. Everyone chatting at once while waiting for her. When they saw him at the door, the room stood up and cheered.

Blushing a little at the unexpected reception, he held up the cardboard trays of Blue Bottle coffees he was carrying.

“I get cheers for bringing the coffee you can actually drink, huh.”

Laughing, reps made space for him on Kara’s hard couch, likewise shifting boxes to make room on the coffee table. As soon as he set the trays down—the coffee in the office cafeteria was inexplicable—the coffees were gone. A couple assistants were bring more in anyway.

“Hi, Sean, hi! How’s Holden? Where’s Holden? Is he gonna be in the audience? So exciting! This is so cool, Sean! It’s finally happening!”

Some of the reps he’d met before, from after Valentine’s Day and Kara blocking him wall to wall with meetings and introductions. But this time the full spectrum had descended. Kara had also promised that the meeting wouldn’t go longer than two hours, ten till noon, but now he suspected that had been optimism. 

Kara blew in seconds after he’d sat down, brushing the leaves of a large floor plant next to the coat rack by the door and tangling herself across limbs, apologizing to everyone and saying she could see they were all enjoying Sean’s generosity, so great, great, and somehow calling hi to him in the middle of it, asking that wasn’t it exciting to be finally doing this and wasn’t a book going to be _so much_ easier after this? “Well, that goes without saying, especially since you are going to knock this interview right out of the park.”

There was a pause. “Followed you right up until the end there,” he told her. “Was that some kind of sports analogy?”

“Throw touchdowns!” she cried over the laughter, circling her desk and slamming her leather carryall on a bunch of files. “You are gonna throw touchdowns in Chicago, Sean Jackson — no contracts required! Are you ready!”

“Uhh. . .”

More laughter, while he stared at her. Straightening behind her desk, she clapped her hands and gave him a smile so big and genuine and full of confidence that a slight frown of confusion began drawing across his brow. And she was faking none of it for their audience either. This was the same Kara from a few days back who had basically jumped out of the airplane when he mentioned that he was stressed over this interview? 

But that morning she had done up her hair and was dressed in a very pretty daffodil yellow dress, cinched at the waist, and seemed to have left that near constant, goofy panic over life and love downstairs in her car. He’d been expecting more exasperation and impatience his way, instead she looked pleased and reassured. So much that his entire last month felt like nothing but a bad practice afternoon.

“Sean,” she said calmly, fondly, like it was the most natural thing for her to be this way. “You are gonna _shine._ ”

Curious.

—

Paula was watering a floor plant when he entered. A large, tall plant with a striking spread of massive dark-green leaves. Since building management was responsible for plants, it was odd seeing her doing it. Also, it felt like he had just seen that plant somewhere. Unlikely as that was.

“Did you have fun with Kara this morning?”

He sighed before he could stop himself. “Long-ass meeting. Still, it did leave me feeling better than when I left the house this morning.”

“That’s nice,” she said, nicely. “I’ll be sure not to take up too much of your time.”

He sat there staring at her with raised eyebrows. Both statements were like someone else had just spoken. He scoped her a little closer. It was too early for massages, neither did she look like she’d had one. And she was still over there lovingly watering the plant. Then she set the can on the floor next to the planter, a beautifully finished large wooden box, and came back to sit behind her desk. Hands clasped, smile on her face. She then turned and looked at the plant, on which his own gaze now returned.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said smoothly. “Such a thoughtful gesture.”

Then silence. Clearly, she wanted him to ask.

“From whom?”

She took a deep satisfied breath. “It came from Cecelia Wilson’s personal conservatory.”

Blanked, he just looked at her. Not even sure he had heard everything correctly.

Big smile in place, she took another wistful breath. “I’d once read she had an award winning one. A conservatory, I mean. Saw the pictures and everything. Holy smokes — a blue tile paradise, installed by Turkish artisans. Who’d’a thought I’d have one of her plants sitting in my office one day.”

It was a very good question.

She turned to him again, her smile widening. Apparently his cue to ask another question.

“Should I know why?”

She tipped her head, slowly shook it. “Probably not. Otherwise I guess you’d be in people management.”

And. . . he had no idea what that meant either.

“You know I’ve never actually really met him?”

He took a moment, searching for the thread of their conversation.

“I saw him a few times in the sky box last fall, but it had just been Jerry having done a cursory introduction.”

Okay, so she meant Holden. That Holden had met his team owner? Who had introduced him to Paula? Meaning Paula and Holden had really never met before then? Was _that_ possible? Or was he tripping. Quickly tracing back to opportunities that might have intersected but at which he’d failed to do the right thing, he actually couldn’t think of a single one. Kara, he realized, had met Holden only because of the FRC fight. _Wow,_ he thought to himself. How odd was that.

And somehow it all had to do with that plant sitting over there. He had no idea why Cecelia would send his agent a plant, expect that maybe it was some Wilson family thing, now that he was about to become a member. Except, he wasn’t entirely sure how that had brought them to Holden.

“Did it come with a note?” he asked her.

“It did.”

“What’d it say?”

“It said thank you. Well. . . it said a little more than that. But that was the gist.”

He shook his head, baffled. “Why is Cecelia thanking you?”

She frowned. “Cecelia?”

He sighed and wiped a hand, indicating she could just leave the conversation where it was. Plants weren’t his problem right now. 

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Paula asked gently.

He looked at her, nodded honestly. 

“Why, exactly. Tell me.”

“Well,” he said, trying to make himself comfortable in the chair. “Couple of things.” And he went on to tell her his worry of running afoul of the league’s code of conduct. “It’s one thing to not go party all night and crash my car outside a nightclub. Or get a DUI. That’s cut and dried. But it’s another thing to not go say something inappropriate or sensitive on a big interview designed for just that and get myself in hot water with the league.”

Paula nodded, the corners of her mouth turned downward in apparent, genuine empathy. And again, as with Kara, had him pausing for a second.

“Meeting Kara and the reps was great and all, and like I said, helped. But— even you’ve never had to advise a player for a context like this. Is the league worried I’m gonna say something. . . I don’t know, to defame the conditions for other players?”

Paula said, “I didn’t realize you’d be this nervous.”

Well, that was no surprise. “How could I not be, Paula? I never wanted this kind of responsibility.”

She nodded, understandingly. “Who would.”

About to respond, he stopped, words gone, not having expected that answer.

“But it’s why you have me, Sean,” she said kindly. “I will take very good care of you, and of this situation. Oren, you remember Oren, don’t you?” Off his nod—Oren was one of the lawyers in the agency.   
“Oren’ll be here to tidy up after us to doubly make sure that you’re all legally good. You may rest easy.”

He had no idea what to say next. She wasn’t being hard or dismissive, politely telling him to get his shit together or else, that he’d had months to prep and how many times did she have to point him to the right sections of the code, and never mind the lawyers, it was _his_ responsibility to keep to code.

“You’re meeting with Mark Hawthorne after this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. . . and Jim Liniker.”

“Right,” she said, lifting a finger in realization. “No wonder you’re nervous. But don’t let that motherfucker freak you out. He’s even out of his depth in a meeting like that. Why’s he even attending in the first place, I wonder. The owners wanna tell you to break a leg on Oprah?”

He scratched his temple, said nothing.

She paused. “What’s the second reason you’re nervous?”

After a long moment, he shook his head. “It’s nothing. It’s personal.”

“Okay. Well, like I said, no need for nervousness. At least on the league side. And whatever your personal issues, I’m sure you’ll resolve. Holden’s a cutie pie. A _rich_ cutie pie, and you’re a good-looking famous guy with a lot of money in your bank account. Whatever your personal problems, Oprah won’t care. So feel better.” Once more, she paused. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he answered, truthfully. “A little.”

She nodded, happy smile unaltered, and pushed a button on her phone system. “Liz,” she said airily toward the intercom. “Please bring Sean some tea. Chamomile sound good, Sean?”

He nodded, still a little leery of her bewildering contentment. Over a plant? Holden’s— or Cecelia’s, or whichever Wilson’s gesture was nice and all, but he wasn’t even getting a clear context for why the thing had been sent in the first place.

“Thanks, Paula,” he said as she lifted her finger from the intercom. “I know it’s not really your style, hand-holding and the like, but I really appreciate it this once.”

“My pleasure, Sean. You know you’re my number one. Shall we get started?”

—

Mark Hawthorne was by himself waiting in the Players Association office he used whenever Mark was up from San Diego. They shook hands, before having it turn into a hug, and asked after each other’s families. He got shown new pictures of the kids, growing like wild flowers; and complimented Mark on having successfully edged out his wife after all the work she’d done in having the kids in the first place, by stamping his DNA all over them. Mark laughed, assuring him he got reminded of it daily since despite that, neither kid behaved anything like him.

“They’re like their mother _and_ grandmother. Bouncing around to Nikki Minaj while making breakfast pancakes. And there’s me not knowing what to do with myself. Tryin’a learn moves.”

He laughed a little, dipping his head, rubbing his earlobe to cover his skipped heartbeats. How close he felt to getting there himself some days. . . and how far on others. Mark cast him a quick look, read his mind. “You’re almost there, Sean.” He nodded, thanked him.

Mark had brought the desk chair from the other side of the table and joined it in a triangle with the two guest ones on this side. So when he took a seat and Mark settled into the one on his right, closer to the desk, it meant that when Jim Liniker joined them it would be in the one opposite him.

He didn’t think Mark had set it up that way. Just life, he guessed.

Mark wasn’t the league-wide Player’s Association rep, just the Chargers’. But being a sensitive conversation and them having developed a good working relationship starting from the FRC thing, Mark had been sent in the Association rep’s stead. He appreciated the decision. Mark was always decent and honest, always to the point. This wasn’t a conversation for someone whose trust he’d need to be figuring out at this eleventh hour. Things would go easier this way.

Glancing at the office entrance, maybe wondering why Jim Liniker was running late without word to them, Mark nonetheless looked relieved to have a moment alone, before bringing his gaze back to him. He himself didn’t look at the entrance. Without needing to root around for an explanation, he knew exactly why Liniker was late. Keeping you waiting, off balance and in heightened tension—it was just basic game strategy, one Mark would recognize if Mark knew what Linker did for the owners beside his official job description. 

“Listen, Sean, I wanted to say a couple of things before Jim Liniker gets here and it gets official. First off, I’ll be clear, I’m not for him joining us. I argued with the league’s lawyers over whether it was even legal, cause as far as I can see, this is strictly an internal, players’ only conversation. But turns out there’re actually no rules on something like this, and the owners seem to feel that they share a common interest with the guys on this kind of exposure.”

He nodded. “I understand. Thanks, Mark. I appreciate your efforts.”

“You’re welcome. Second, look, this meeting is going to be uncomfortable no matter what. Guys were pretty blunt about their feelings. But you should know that not all the guys are onboard with this — not about us calling you into a meeting like this, nor about the overall position the players finally took. A lot of guys said to pass on that they’re on your side in this and that it’s strictly your private business what you say in the interview.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

“As for me, you know where I stand. I’ve been on your side right from starting whistle. And that’s because you’ve always stood out as an example for player comportment in the league. So I guess just know that a bunch of us are with you.”

“Thanks, Mark. That really means a lot to me.” 

And then Mark was looking toward the door, where he presumed Jim Liniker had finally appeared.

—

So at 1pm, instead of being inside a restaurant quietly discussing business, he was sitting with Elliot at Rage’s sidewalk cafe.

Any hour near restaurants was busy outside in LA, because who wanted to be inside and missing out on year-round blue skies unless they had to. And on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood in particular, it was an endless stream of life.

But he frankly hadn’t been in the mood. After his mother’s ridiculous lunch he felt more and more the need to be with Sean—to work this out together and not separately anymore. So he wouldn’t have minded being inside a quiet restaurant looking over wedding updates.

Instead they were sitting on the sidewalk outside of Rage, causing an absolute scene.

Teens were shrieking and crashing into light poles on looking over and seeing them, everyone else double-takes. It was so tacky of Elliot, but actually pretty hilarious. The screams alone. And selfies, and Stories, and the crying and hugging and kisses to be passed along to Sean.

Elliot was laughing in a way he hadn’t seen in a while, and he wasn’t failing to notice, smiling at him the same way as Craig and Petey. With a pride that they’d accomplished something worthwhile. It warmed him, especially if it was going to replace the mystified, pain-inducing looks Elliot had given him on Sunday, when it had seemed for much too long a moment that Elliot didn’t seem to know who he was.

So he supposed both Rachel and Elliot were right, and he was going to ty and enjoy the afternoon as much as he could. Still, restraining his smile, he shook his head.

“What really is the point of this. It solves nothing at all.”

“Neither does an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. But I’ve known you to break up with guys for not respecting your time to watch. So we’re sitting here and enjoying this pointless afternoon.”

“Whatever you say, Manassian.”

Elliot gave him a fake shocked look. “I swear I haven’t heard such easy agreement out of you in well over a year.”

“Well, as you said,” he told him, somehow unlocking his jaw and saying the words. “The hard part’s over.”

“It felt that way at lunch yesterday, didn’t it? Despite all your worrying, your parents really did just want a solid update on wedding preps. I thought it was a really nice afternoon. Especially when Cecelia psyched Sean out. I’d _never_ seen anything like that. I was getting up to pee in the middle of the night and still laughing.”

“You’re still laughing now,” he pointed out. Then, hesitating, “You still don’t think. . . she didn’t seem. . . off kilter somehow, to you?”

“Well, she had a slight chill toward your dad, but I’d say she seemed more. . . accepting of Sean. I told you, I think playing Memory with him was kind of her way of welcoming—”

“Don’t say it,” he interrupted, feeling the way the basketball sized pound of worry had tried to stir in his stomach. “Just don’t— use those words.”

His phone began buzzing, stopping his heart for a second. But it wasn’t Sean but Petey, who ended the call before he could answer. But an Instagram notification was already in. Which he showed to Elliot, who just laughed and shook his head. Petey had already collated and turned the images and videos coming from their sidewalk escapade into a quite dramatic series of tweets and Instagram uploads.

“He’s even being slow on the ball,” Elliot said, gaze lowered to the iPad on the table, filled with Soirée updates. “How long have we been here, almost an hour?”

“Right?’ he said, smiling. Kara, he saw, had liked every last one of the posts. He blinked when a notification came in that Davey also had liked a particular one. Quickly, he went into the app and DM’d Davey, sending a smiley face. Moments later a thumbs-up came his way. His smile widened. He held up his phone for Elliot to see.

“What am I looking at,” Elliot asked.

“His bestie. Remember Bootleggers?”

Elliot’s eyes widened. “Tell him to send a dick pic.”

Laughing, because Davey just might, and lowering his head to his phone, his gaze was instead caught by the sight beyond Elliot. At the entrance to the nightclub.

He dropped his gaze complete.y. Because for a second he thought he was seeing things.

“Listen,” he said quietly to Elliot. “Take a look behind you and tell me where we know that guy from.”

When they were younger, Elliot would do a slick dropping his cutlery and picking it up while looking around him move that used always used to impress him, since he was that person that would immediately glance over when asked to not look.

Nowadays though, Elliot was jaded and over everything and simply turned and looked over his shoulder. 

At East Coast, who was right then being hugged by one of the club’s managers.

“We don’t,” Elliot said, facing forward.

“Okay,” he whispered, leaning forward. “I saw him at the Peninsula at my dinner with Ev Nielsen. He was talking to someone from one of those concierge firms that. . . you know, throw those. . . _corporate_ parties.”

“What, the ones for closeted famous people?” At his nod, “Well, if he’s talking to Anuel, then that’s probably what he is. I guess he’s looking for space? What’s your interest?”

“Not mine,” he said softly.

Elliot pinned an arched look on him. “Whose? Sean’s?”

He brought his gaze back to Elliot. “Why would you say that?”

Elliot shrugged. “Old habits die hard?”

“I seriously doubt that Sean went to those kinds of parties. But this is the second time I’ve seen him in as many days. That’s pretty random, isn’t it?”

Elliot shrugged again. “Not if he’s in town siting potential venues. He could just be hitting all the hot spots.”

“But he keeps looking at him.”

“Oh, this I didn’t see coming,” Elliot said in heavy tones. “You turning out to be one of those married people who suddenly expects everything and everyone to change to respect your married _status._ ”

“What, so you’re saying he’s looking but not saying anything? That sound pre-married normal to you?”

That paused Elliot for second, but Elliot waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure you’ll soon be getting an expensive little card at the office inviting you up to some lushly forested, dimly lit Marin County estate for a _special_ evening with _special_ guests. Just remember who’s your plus one.”

“Craig?” he asked.

Elliot laughed, while he said nothing more, struggling to keep his uneasy gaze away from the man. “Well, he’s certainly dressed like he’s not from here.”

When East Coast was finished being welcomed with kisses to both cheeks by Anuel, the man simply turned and stared right at him. Freezing him. Smiling the way he had at dinner, East Coast then entered the club.

Surprised by how rattled it left him, he went on staring. And Anuel, whose gaze had followed after East Coast’s, looked over and started over. Probably having seen him exchanged looks with East Coast, now thinking God knew what.

He lowered his eyes to his plate. “Heads up. Anuel is coming over.”

“Oh, brother,” Elliot breathed. Much too heavily for what the situation warranted. Until he remembered why Elliot would react that way . . . and why Anuel was actually coming over.

“Hi, Holden. Aren’t you causing the scene. Rage in the afternoon is trending on LA social media. We should give you a cut.”

“Always glad to be of service.”

“How’re you finding the lunch menu?”

“It’s great,” he said, nodding. “Thanks.”

Anuel casually pointed behind him, toward the club’s entrance. “You know Kevin?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh . . . okay. Well, anything we can do for you, please just let me know.”

“Thanks.”

Anuel tightened his lips, nodded. And turned a lingering gaze on Elliot. Then came a loaded pause. Then quietly, “Likewise, Elliot.”

“Thanks,” Elliot said cheerfully, without looking up.

After a moment, Anuel smile at him again, who had no problem looking at him, nodded once more and left.

He waited for Elliot to look up from the iPad, now at a PDF page of print, and smiled at Elliot.

“It comes for us all.”

“Spare me.”

East Coast—Kevin, Anuel had called him—emerged from the nightclub and stood at the entrance with his hands shoved deep into his chinos, surveying the boulevard like a king.

Despite the power stance in front of Rage—the mainstay nightclub in West Hollywood, where even in his heyday he’d depart their reserved area by 8pm to preserve life and limb—he knew the man was definitely a visitor to LA. 

But more than that, and contrary to what Elliot’s snark, of course he knew when a guy had a sexual interest in him.

That man did not.

His phone buzzed, then buzzed some more, making him reach for it and put it on silent.

“Dick pics?”

He smiled, shook his head. “Just Petey having himself a Sean-filled afternoon. Any excuse to post some oldies.”

“And it’s not even Throwback Thursday.” Tapping at the iPad screen, Elliot turned it toward him. “Okay, read and talk.”

“I’ve read it. Half that stuff is just Marissa putting subtle pressure on me and Sean to head out to Spain.”

“She ain’t wrong.”

“Yeah. . .” he murmured, still looking at Kevin over there, then lowering his attention to his meal and hoping the man would just fade from his mind.

—

“The major concern from most of the guys,” Mark said, “is that you not give any kind of impression one way or the other about being gay in the league. No one wants to feel that they’re obligated or have some kind of responsibility to make other players feel comfortable or welcome or what have you. Teammates are teammates, right? We all support each other in that way. So the general feeling is that beyond that, there really shouldn’t be anything to add.”

“Meaning?” he asked, wanting to be clear.

“Meaning guys don’t really want you making broad statements. They feel that, you can speak for yourself, but that should be it.”

“Including not for any of the guys who are still closeted.”

“Right,” Mark said, shortly, self-consciously. “Guys don’t want to be made to look bad on TV, I guess.”

“No doubt.”

He really didn’t know what he’d expected from his fellow players at this juncture. Frankly, he hadn’t given it that much thought. Otherwise this might have thrown him for a loop.

But not that month. Probably not ever again.

Jim Liniker’s smile hadn’t changed much from when he’d greeted them and sat down opposite him.

He continuing ignoring Liniker. And said to Mark, “I appreciate everything you’ve said, Mark. I really do. And I'll be honest, even as of the last time we talked about other people’s opinions on me being gay, I might have listened. But I'm past all that. I got my own insecurities to deal with. So I’m not about to carry the entire league of players’ as well.”

Mark waited.

“So I’m gonna go say what I have to say.”

Mark stared at the floor for a second, then nodded. “I’ll let ‘em know.”

“And what is that, Sean?”

Both he and Mark turned their attention to Liniker.

“What is it that you’re about to say. Things that might hurt your career? Get you into problems with the league?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Mark said, about to go toe–to-toe over the player’s right to speak.

“How ‘bout your . . . reputation? Even if you’re not immediately aware?”

“Things like what, Jim?” he asked, hard.

Liniker’s smile went nowhere. “Well. . .” he said, as if pondering. “Blowback can come from all kinds of unexpected places. Even if you’re not right then aware that you’re kicking a hornet’s nest. And I don’t mean the league’s side, we’re just looking out for you. In fact, the perfect example is your engagement—” Liniker snorted before he could stop himself— “to Holden Wilson. You saw how TMZ decimated that side of your life. But with the right people . . . in control,” he said, emphasizing the word. “Things like that don’t get a chance to happen. The owners have always wanted to help.”

His heart contracted hard, at the words he had heard for so long and so often as his only salvation.

“What exactly would that help look like, Jim?” he asked. _Muzzling me?_ he then followed, delivered with a look Liniker understood perfectly well.

Liniker unclasped his hands, spread them. “Whatever you want, Sean. You really should have reached out about any issues you were having.”

Mark’s expression had tightened just a tad. Like Mark was trying to find pieces to the conversation he wasn’t getting.

He continued to stare at Liniker, who went on looking cordially at him, his invisible menace like a blanket draped over them.

“Thanks,” he told him after a moment. “Message received.”

“All right then,” Liniker said, as if to say _Your choice._ And with a small breath, Liniker turned to Mark. “Glad everyone got a chance to speak. Meeting’s over, correct?”

Mark nodded, and the three of them stood up. Liniker shook Mark’s hand, gave him a wide tight-lipped smile, and wished him good luck in Chicago. And then left.

“That was fuckin’ weird.”

He said nothing.

Mark clasped his shoulder. “Go get ’em, QB.”

He managed a smile, nodded. “See you at the tourney,” he told him, turning to leave. Mark nodded, raised a hand.

—

It was dim and quiet in the Harry Winston private room, where he was seated alone at the velvet table, having asked Aaron, the manager on his account, to give him a minute.

The company had called that morning before his meeting with Kara, to confirm his 4pm. Realizing he was probably over-scheduled for the day, he’d considered moving the appointment until after Chicago. But he’d just settled for pushing it an hour later. Now, unexpectedly drained from sitting face to face with Jim Liniker, he wished he’d moved it to next week after all.

So with Aaron gone for the time being, there he was, sitting with his and Holden’s wedding rings.

As he’d predicted, Holden had chosen to keep the design in their individual styles. And as the company had promised, the craftsman had created a unitary motif that ran in both rings, and to be fair had informed Holden’s decision in retaining their styles. The rings were beautiful. He was in a terrible state of longing just looking at them. Yet on their pillows of satin, it sank in even stronger what kind of decision he was making. Would soon be making, in a ceremony before five hundred mostly strangers.

The door to the room pushed open a little, enlarging the sliver of foyer light that always lined the floor. Expecting to see Aaron, since it was about the amount of time he had asked for, he was instead staring at . . . a preppishly dressed stranger.

No tension, not even a trickle, went through him, so instinctively he knew he wasn’t looking at some ex-boyfriend of Holden’s. 

But there was something powerfully familiar about the close-cut hair, tailored chinos and monogrammed shirt. And the smile.

When he suddenly realized who was in the room with him, he simply refused to believe it. Johan Wright’s warning or no. Not today. Not at this point in his life.

“That’s the look,” Kevin Bendis said. Hands in pocket, staying by the door as if guarding it. As if to block any way out. “Always hesitant and fearful at first, but get him in bed and _whoa!_ Hold tight.”

He pulled his hands, already begun shaking, from the velvet tabletop, not even fully registering his actions. His hands went under the table and closed around his knees. Where, as if amplifying a current, the shaking progressed from his hands into the rest of him. He felt as though he was falling. Trapping inside his own body and falling.

Looking up across the room, he found Bendis looking back at him. And then Bendis simply walked over.

At the table, Bendis sat on its edge, right up against him, looking not at him but at the tabletop. Slowly, uncaring of his shaking hand, he brought it up from under the table and simply drew the black satin cloth over the rings.

Comfortably seated next to him, Bendis tipped him a look. Then straightened. “It doesn’t matter, Sean,” he said softly. “I think you’re smart enough to know it doesn’t actually change anything. Smart enough to not _let_ it change anything.”

He said nothing, waiting it out.

“This is a nice surprise, seeing you here. Because coincidentally, I ran into Troy Patterson the other day. He, um. . . God, I think he misses you. You know, I never understood it. Coming out of the closet. I never understand why anyone does it. All it does is complicate things.” Bendis shook his head. “The fuck were you thinking.” Bendis was quiet. Then, “Though Troy said it had already been a while. Still, it was kind of a shitty thing to do, especially to Troy. You know that right? After everything every last one of them had done for you for so many years— that _we’d_ all done for you. That was how you thanked us. By coming out of the closet. By leaving us.”

Bendis stopped, eyes on the floor. And he waited. It would end. It always did.

“So who’ve you been fucking this last year on the road, Sean? And please don’t insult me by quoting some article about wearing a chastity belt for Holden Wilson. I’ve asked around, but everyone’s claiming ignorance, I guess to protect your engagement.” Kevin pulled his hand from his pocket, opening up his wallet. “Listen, why don’t you call me, and we’ll get back with Troy. Don’t even worry about the whole Oprah thing. Everyone’s terrified you’re about to write some tell-all book and are planning on announcing it on Oprah, but I keep telling them that’s absurd.”

An embossed ESPN business card now lay on top of the satin cloth over their rings. “But maybe after Oprah we can get you into the studio for a quickie.”

And Kevin burst into a short laugh. “Quickie _follow up_ interview. But then. . . quickie and you are not words that belong in the same sentence. God, I’m a martyr for handing you off to Troy.”

Bendis touched his arm, stared into his lowered face. “Really good to see you again, Sean. I’ll be expecting your call.”

Then Kevin Bendis was out of the room, his footsteps trailing off into the round foyer with the large round flower table just beyond the doors, when Aaron touched the door to make it open a little wider. Walking into the room, a startled look warring with the professional one on his face, Aaron glanced behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron said in clipped tones. “But was that gentleman just in here? Our guests are not permitted to enter private rooms not reserved for them.”

“It’s fine,” he said quietly. “Just . . . someone I knew.”

“Of course. I understand. Nonetheless, we will be reminding him of our policy.”

He nodded, slipping the card off the table and holding it up between clamped fingers. “This needs trashing though.”

“Right away.”

•


	3. Chapter 3

That evening after Harry Winston was the first chance he got to go through Davey’s Instagram screenshots, which had kept coming in all afternoon. Captioned initially with a text that said only— _~thirsty._

Holden and Elliot at some sidewalk cafe, Holden in black slacks and a checkered black and white shirt. Hair beautiful, smile deceptively innocent, only his eyes ever so slightly showing his sadness.

_Thirsty_ didn’t begin to describe how he felt looking at him. Everything seemed rolled into one giant ball of emotion without a name.

As tempted as he’d been, he hadn’t take pictures of their wedding rings. Not even to show Holden. They would either see them together when it was time . . . or he would never see the things again.

That was all he cared to think about his visit to Harry Winston.

Out of pity, since Davey had taken the time to send him the screenshots, he sent a reply text. _He *is* pretty hot, isn’t he?_

Davey sent him a facepalm, and he texted that he’d call him from Chicago.

—

A car dropped them off at Van Nuys airport, on whose single strip awaited a semi-private flight to Chicago. Kara was still like a changed person, all happy smiles and zero jitters. She even had a new pep in her walk. And kept saying how wonderful this was, how it was about to take him to the next level and how he was about to become not just a role model but a _idol_ now.

“Sounds as awesome as a root canal,” he said. 

Laughing it right off, her joy seemed unstoppable. But he had to admit she had real cause to be happy. She’d doggedly guided every public moment of his coming out right up to the big interview one year later that brought it all together. She was probably right in saying after this the conversation around his coming out would move onto a different stage. He couldn’t wait. A one year long coming out would make anyone sick to death of it.

The flight contained twenty people, a pair of whom were famous basketball players and another his fellow NFL player. He and Emory greeted each other like the old friends they were, with a hand shake followed by a brief hug. The remaining passengers were the usual actors and LA rich, taking selfies with them and each other. When it was all over, Emory moved to the back of the jet and put on his headphones. Leaving him wishing he could immediately do the same.

But Kara, after making him promise to not even hint to Moore, was showing him pictures of her dress for his wedding. Pictures of her alternating between looking terrified and then wearing big smiles. The pictures were quite stunning, and she seemed to believe him when he told her so, taking a big breath and nodding that to her surprise she had indeed somehow found the perfect dress. Only then was he able to put on his headphones and read to some light rain sounds for the remainder of the flight.

Chicago was deliciously cool, a hard wind blowing through the last of the spring weather as they disembarked at a private field at Midway. There were kisses and loud byes as the actors and their new friends from the flight trooped down the stairs, and Kara in front of him trying to secure her cocoa mane in the wind, mostly failing. 

Emory raised a thumb at him as they parted ways, and he raised a hand back as their car rolled up. He got the door for Kara while their driver loaded their bags.

—

Emory was in fact the last one to arrive at Jonah Wright’s barbecue. 

Hilarious, but classic, and had him laughing, shaking his head as they wrapped each other up tightly and held on. Nothing brief about it. Emory pressed a kiss into his cheek, and he returned the favor. Then everyone got a chance at the guy, one of the best, most upbeat people he knew.

Welcomes concluded, they all recovered their seats at Jonah’s table, on an elevated back deck in Chicago’s suburb of Evanston. He’d been glad to leave Kara at the hotel and come out there, not having expected the gut-squeeze he’d gotten from looking out at the city’s skyscrapers and wondering which one contained an escort club called Temptation.

He’d met Emory and everyone else present at a BBQ like it, years ago when he’d first joined the Chargers. Having heard about the gatherings as a rookie in Minnesota but too nervous to attend. That changed his first year in San Diego when he’d encountered an older retried player who’d lightly suggested that he attend the next time Ian Kellan invited him for a barbecue. Everyone in the league knew Ian Kellan, also older and retired, and known to be chill. So he had said sure. The first couple of parties had been normal league mixers. It had been the third that had been what Kellan had wanted him to see. He’d been overwhelmed with gratitude. 

The occasions were never held during the season, as press on them was too watchful. But it was a staple of the offseason. Scheduled monthly at someone’s place anywhere around the country, mixed in with the general get-togethers players held so as not to stand out. But he hadn’t attended one of these in over two years. It was all he’d been hearing about since his arrival—his lazy ass missing just when the action had gotten good. Meaning, him not being live to answer questions about his coming out. He’d smiled, taken the heat.

Wright was a great host, still in his twenties so already from a different mindset about being gay and closeted in the league. Glass-closeted, they called it, intending to eventually dissolve the glass altogether. To hear them tell it, his coming out had helped tremendously. There would be no Jim Linikers, Troy Pattersons or Kevin Bendises for them. Not if he could help it, anyway. Not if he could actually do something truly useful with his coming out. No more . . . isolating you and making you feel _special._ Their parties were certainly not barbecues and friendly league-mixers.

Despite his youth, Wright embodied the skills needed for the kind of host duties Wright had signed up for—the kid was cool and smooth, according each player’s situation the respect it deserved. 

And each did. As all were certainly diverse. Some players present where married to women, some from families that would instantly disown them. Some feared for what their buddies or former girlfriends would do. Others were physically endangered. But all of them, about twenty in all, there tonight under the stars to celebrate his being able to tell even a tiny portion of their stories. Mark Hawthorne’s mission from the straight players had from the start been a pointless one. These were the voices he represented.

Like a less anxiety-inducing version of Cecelia’s lunch, they gathered around laughing and drinking at Wright’s two big wooden tables, joined up together to form one big party. They ate barbecued ribs and collared greens and corn bread, polish sausages heaped with sharp mustard-covered jalapeños, red peppers, tomatoes, mountains of coleslaw all around, and homemade deep dish pizza which Wright kindly informed them didn’t mean had _specifically_ been made in _his_ home, while arguing over everything from the spices to whether Wright had indeed brought the heat with the sauces—because if there was one commonality among their diverse group, it was that players could do some damage to food. And God help when it was red meat.

The beer was locally brewed, and no one could argue that it was remarkable. But he laughed and shook his head and refused to tell when the badgering came in swift and hot. “What’d Mark say? What’d the straights have to say you do for them?”

BBQ-sauced hands up, he just continued shaking his head. “I’m just here to hear what everyone has to say. Cause. . . look, I know I didn’t have it that bad.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, son,” said Ian Kellan. “I know in whose clutches I found you. None of us here knows any more than you do. Experiences differ, no doubt, but when all’s said and done, no one here is any more qualified than the other to tell our story. And who knows, you might even do a better job than some of us.”

“I don’t know, Ian,” he said, slowly shaking his head as he pushed away mocking thoughts. “It does feel like someone else could do a better job.”

“What I do know,” said Wymer, wide receiver for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, veteran of the BBQs, with an appetite like a bottomless pit. “Is that my management would be in pieces right now. Oprah wantin’ to talk? Forget that I was out, they wouldn’t now how to start putting one foot in front of the next.”

“Truth,” a couple of guys intoned.

“Except of course to call your ass up in the middle a shower,” Ames, New York Jets cornerback, said, “just to say, _Don’t fuck up, you’ve still got a contract to think of._ Oh, yeah, thanks rep. Never occurred to me.”

Grunts of commiseration. “How’d your reps handle it, Sean?” someone asked.

Before he could answer, Dutton, a Detroit Lions Safety, perennial nemesis of all quarterbacks in his league division, spoke up. “Hang on a minute. Sean’s marrying Alastair Wilson’s only son and heir. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter how his reps want to handle it, they’re getting _told_ how to handle it.”

There were laughs and chuckles around the table. But Dutton’s words had passed something through his mind. But it was gone before he could catch it.

“Boy, Sean,” marveled Parnell. “You came _all_ the way out. Gettin’ married and everything. To a _dude._ In the fuckin’ NFL.”

“You feel like there’ll be blowback,” someone asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Ian answered.

“Sean?”

He shrugged. “I’ll just take it one day at a time.”

Nods of agreement, murmurs of support.

“Hall of fame of a different kind right there,” Emory said. Then, sitting back, tinged his knife against his glass mason jar filled with local brew. “Let’s do this, people. We got a lot to talk about tonight, but let’s start it right.” To his surprise, everyone around the table first repeated Emory’s action on their mason jars, then set down their cutlery and raised their jars.

“Here’s to Sean,” Emory said. “For being white enough, gorgeous enough, and can I personally say, chill enough, to have done this for all of us.”

In the midst of hoots and laughter, he lowered his head, shaking it at the stupidity, and gave Emory a look. Emory smiled, all raised eyebrows and sparkling eyes, dimples in full effect. Then, pointing right at one of those dimples, said, “Put it right here, Sean.”

And to the encouragement of the good, decent, and hopeful men around him, with whom he had experienced so much, he rose and leaned over, and kissed some hot sauce into Emory’s smiling dimple.

—

The evening having worn on, sitting aside now from everyone, he was talking to Ian Kellan, telling him how nervous he was about the next day. About talking about his experience in the league.

“You don’t have to be. She might not get into it. It’s big corporate after all.”

“It’s all she’ll ask about. Her people didn’t want to say when they did final rounds yesterday with my publicist, but she’ll get into it. And they’ll expect us to be ready. For _me_ to be ready. It’s all my reps have been prepping me for. And Ian, some of that shit is still too close to the surface.”

“Yeah, I heard,” said Ian, who had a pretty strong Sam Jackson vibe going, and sounded like the actor too. “Johan mentioned Kevin Bendis being spotted in LA? Was he there for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, ESPN New York is not ESPN in Burbank.”

“I know. And. . . Jim Liniker was at my meeting with Mark Hawthorne.”

That had Ian turning to look at him. “You have got to be kidding.” At his slow shake of head, “God damn.” Then— “What’d he want?”

“They think I’m writing a book after this.”

“Are you?”

He took a breath. “My publicist wants it, more than anything at this point. But I don’t know. Somehow. . . either it just makes sense at this point, or someone told the owners. . . and they’re worried about— ”

“The plantation getting burned down by Union soldiers.”

That had him laughing under his breath.

“You know I look forward to the day,” Ian said.

“We all do.”

They were both quiet, forking up their sweet potato pie. “I just. . . don’t wanna go freeze up on TV,” he said quietly. “Thinking about all’a that crap while I’m supposed to be talking about. . . fuck,” he said, concedingly. “All that crap, I guess.”

“Mm,” Ian said. Then, “Your man, he give you strength.”

“Yeah,” he said without needing to think about it. “Yeah, he does.”

“Then you think of him.”

He was silent for a while, no longer eating his pie but watching the distant city lights. Not seeing its clubs and bars. Before carefully saying, “Right now, it’s complicated.”

Ian snorted. “It kinda always is.”

He lowered his head, nodded.

“Listen, Sean. You won’t have two moments like the one you’re about to have. Since you came out, Rosie and I have been quiet, watching everything unfold.” Rosenfelt being the retired player who had insisted he follow Ian to the next barbecue. “And it’s all been fun and games. But now you have the mic. So you speak your truth like you just heard of it. You get me? Whatever your reps told you is within legal bounds, you speak on it without mincing words. This is an opportunity, and we’re not asking for special privileges, just to get out of the darkness. And don’t be afraid of any blowback. That man of yours, I know all about his kind. They’ve been running the country since before there was a country. You’re in the circle now. Doesn’t matter what’s going between you personally. You’re _privileged_ now. Not in the way these youngsters think, but true privilege. And that Holden Wilson, he got it bad for you. So take advantage of it. Speak clearly on TV and do your part to really change some things.”

Ian fell silent. “I’m really looking forward to what you have to say, Sean.”

“Thank,” he said quietly.

Wright brought over some brews and pastries just then, promising tastes they’d never experienced, and “Sean, you still gotta judge the hot sauce competition, so keep yer taste buds loose and limber.”

When Wright left, he and Ian, alone, just drank and ate some more.

“That Alastair Wilson’s son. . .”

“Yeah?”

“He is pretty though, isn’t he.”

It was his turn to snort.

—

In his hotel room that night, he got early to bed. First he checked his messages—he still had to call Davey, but Holden had been sending messages since morning. Texts as if part of an ongoing conversation, yet raising no obligation to reply. _You’ll do fine. You’ll be great. They’ll love you. Who wouldn’t._

There were more, and he read each a few times. Then looked again at the screenshots from the day before of Holden at the sidewalk cafe. Then he swiped out of the gallery, called Davey.

“I liked a couple of the posts,” Davey instantly said. Just to trigger him. And when he didn’t respond, “You wanna know which ones?”

“I wanna know what you’re doing with a real phone.”

Davey laughed. “Jay, swear to God, I took Michelle on date night to see a play, guy at security checked my phone and asked me what was up with that. I thought he was gonna call the FBI. So yeah, got me an iPhone.”

Davey said it like people who had just gotten an iPhone said it in 2007.

“And what, first thing you did was download Instagram?”

“Not _first,_ but yeah. You and Holden stuff is up on there regularly. Hashtag wilsonjack. Michelle shows me all the time. Twitter too, but that place is a little hot for my brain. But I did know I needed to get with it.”

Listening to Davey Jones, wild man, talking about Instagram and Twitter, forget him even coming out, he _knew_ the world had changed. It was funny as hell imagining what the future held.

“Especially going into the wedding,” Davey said, finishing aloud what he’d been thinking. Yup, God help Instagram, Davey Jones had a piece of it now.

Then Davey, trying to keep a lid on, was excitedly informing that they were all set for England and holy shit was it going to be one for the ages, and he would not believe the kinds of off-road vehicles the company had in waiting for them.

“Land Cruisers?” he checked.

“Land Cruisers, Jay,” Davey confirmed, in a voice almost trembling. “The ones from _the war._ ”

“Bullshit.”

“The English,” Davey said in serious tones, “do not bullshit. The word isn’t even in their lexicon. Jay, we’re talking tricked out. You want me to send you—”

“No,” he interrupted. “I don’t need you spamming me just cuz you got an iPhone now.”

“Okay, well, apparently, it’s same type _the Queen_ uses up in the Scottish Highlands.”

“The queen of England goes off-roading?”

“Is what _I_ asked. Anyway, those British dudes? They know their stuff. It’s not just on Top Gear.”

Then Davey went into details of the trip that was supposed to be about their tuxes and clothing for the four days in Spain. He hadn’t brought up where he was. Oprah’s show had been promoting the interview for weeks now, but he was pretty sure Davey had no idea. 

Confirmed when, in their middle of their conversation, Michelle called out from somewhere, “Is that Sean? Where is he! His Oprah interview’s airing tomorrow! Kay and I are getting off work early to go watch at a bar!”

“What bar?” Davey asked, voice fading off the connection. And after a confused beat, “You’re pregnant.”

Michelle, high pitched giggles falling like pebbles, said, “You sound surprised, Davey Jones.”

Another beat, then, “That you’re going to a bar, or that you’re pregnant?”

“They sell soda in bars, Jones,” he said. When it came to Michelle, Davey constantly shed brain cells. “And tell her yes, I know the interview’s airing tomorrow, I'm here in Chicago right now recording it.”

Davey was conveying the words as he said them, no sooner out than he was suddenly on the phone with a breathless Michelle. “You’re just now recording? I thought it would have been weeks ago! They’ve been promoting it for a couple weeks now.”

“In the hopes that I don’t die beforehand, I guess.”

“Well, talk to me! How do you feel? Is Holden there with you?”

“Nah, he. . . he’s in LA. It’s just an overnight thing.”

“You’re not _alone,_ are you?”

“I got my publicist here.”

“Oh, good. Oh my God,” Michelle said in a rush, “it’s so exciting! Can you tell her Kay and I love her? What’re you wearing?”

“Uhhh,” a shocked sounding Davey intoned in the background.

“Don’t tell me you’re wearing T-shirt and jogging pants!”

“Oh shit, Michelle. That’s exactly what I was about to tell you.”

“Whatever. You break a leg, okay? I know I don’t say this enough, but it really is an honor knowing you, Sean Jackson. You’ve come a long way from co-shithead days in high school.”

And so there he was, the night before his most dreaded interview, with his eyes smarting with tears.

“Thanks, Michelle,” he said. But he was now actually back talking to Davey who’d taken his new phone back from his wife, but still had his attention on her.

“What the fuck?” Davey said softly. “Co-shithead? And bar at this stage? Is this woman all right?” Then, “Jay, you there?”

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, wiping his eyes. “I’m here.”

“So England, dude.”

Taking a quiet breath, he laid back and closed his eyes, listening to the purity of self that was his brother, flooded with so many things. Their dual growing-up moment of Davey confronting him for not having confided in him about his sexual orientation. The innocence of Davey asking such a thing. His own tangle of emotions over it. A distance his career and the life that had nearly ensnared him had created and sustained.

One day, he thought, knowing it, he would tell Davey everything.

Then he let himself think of Holden, whose life none of the men he’d spent his evening with could have easily comprehend. Holden who had never been locked in anywhere, never been in a position to question his place in the world, let alone his very mind. Who nonetheless paid tireless attention and money to make sure others didn’t have to.

Davey was the soulmate and avenger everyone needed, made of uncomplicated love and unshakable loyalty. Holden was the version of that for the heart, on steroids. The one who loved you even when you couldn’t love yourself.

No one had to tell him how lucky he had turned out in life. How wrong his choices could have gone. Nor the exact kind of courage he needed to draw down for his interview in the morning.

This was the end of the line for running. Everyone including himself would be listening tomorrow, and he only had to say his piece to know that he had pretty much officially closed out an entire part of his life.

“All right, I gotta go,” Davey said.

“How’s pregnancy,” he quickly asked, since Davey was the worst informant on earth about their coming baby.

“Sean, is— is this you being gay?”

“No, you idiot,” he said, somehow talking through his crushing laughter. “How _is_ it? How’s Michelle doing, how’s the baby doing? How’re you helping?”

“Oh. Well, everyone’s good. In fact, that’s why I gotta jump. Thousand Island dressing run, then a hot water soak and a tummy massage.”

“Whoa,” he said.

“Right? Co-shithead _on_ it.”

He laughed, wished him goodnight.

Finished with Davey, he switched off his phone and sent it across the bedroom toward the sofa. Then closing his eyes again, relaxing. 

Soon, imagining a warm voice at his ear, arms wrapping tightly around his body, warm lips in his hair. Heated body moving against his and tangling their legs. Moving in complete acceptance of who he was, transmitting his special brand of confidence to calm his heart. Live in the flesh tonight, it would have been like a drug.

But he didn’t call him. He just. . . let him back into his heart.

•


	4. Chapter 4

Craig was at the door to his hotel villa thanking the concierge manager for the complimentary lunch service, and confirming that yes, Mr. Wilson had indeed found the right channel and was right then inside settling in to watch the show.

Mr. Wilson had indeed found the channel, which thanks to Craig’s quick thinking had been drawn down via satellite, since all of Hawaii’s channels aired Oprah Winfrey’s show like everyone else—as syndication, therefore based on local time. Being, on Harpo Studio’s own mandate, 4pm local everywhere. Problem being that Maui was three hours behind LA, so 4pm in LA was 1pm local, while he hadn’t been about to wait three hours to know what everyone else in LA did. It was at times like these that he was eternally grateful that he had deleted ninety-nine percent of his personal phone contacts.

While he made sure the volume was right—they had about half an hour before the show started—he heard Craig, still at the door, now speaking with the staff who’d trailed the concierge manager carting their lunch. Asking them, now that their boss was nowhere in sight, why exactly they were getting a complimentary lunch in the first place.

They’d decided to try a Montage hotel on the hunk of island immediately northwest of the main Hawaiian island, and he could already hear Craig at the next senior staff meeting, perpetually expressing shady surprise and a begrudging respect for excellence of staff at properties not associated with Wilson Realty. The privately owned company that operated the Montage Hotels weren’t clients. But he was pretty sure the company would soon be getting a call asking for a lunch to discuss exactly why that was.

Muting the channel, he listened, shaking his head to the server’s response, hearing the smirk in her voice without having to see it.

While wheeling in their food along with a second server, the first one said: “The Montage Hotels and Resorts appreciates all the various partnerships which facilitate our respective industries.” Food trolley locked, she straightened with an outright smile. “It’s our pleasure to offer you our compliments.”

Craig closed the door after the servers, who after setting up their lunch smiled and departed with alohas, then returned to the villa’s living room. By which time he’d take a seat at the center table and threw Craig a look.

“You think they weren’t prepared for your checked-in-as-SVP-finance at the competition’s biggest financier self? Earth to Mr. Hollenthal?”

Craig cocked a smile at him. “Gotta keep ‘em on their toes.”

They uncovered their lunch in silence. Craig glanced at the TV. 

“How much longer?”

“Less than twenty.”

Craig brought his attention back to their lunch. “Wow. Long time coming.”

He didn’t say anything. Like Elliot, Craig had already told him how great he thought Sunday at his mother’s had gone. Yet wouldn’t give him details of what the heck had gone down at his table with his father. On asking Craig whether he’d noticed anything amiss about his mother though, even if just toward his dad, Craig had shrugged and shaken his head. It had been a long shot anyway. And certainly a miracle of friendship that Craig had been paying this much attention to any of it at all.

But Craig’s remark, he knew, also captured everything from three complete years of keeping his friends hanging. He recognized the distinct smell of burning tires he knew to be frustrated revenge. So yeah, the interview did seem like the cherry on top of a very large openness cake.

“You called him?”

“Texted.”

Craig didn’t ask whether or what had been Sean’s reply. The show had been recorded the morning before, but not a single word had come out on its contents besides promotion blurbs. They would all hear Sean’s _reply_ live and together.

And maybe the entire experience was changing not just him but his friends as well, however incremental, because as they arranged their food, Craig did seem full of things to say. He noticed this because this was a man who normally sat across from everyone like a mirror, only reflecting back on you whatever you were looking at him with. But now Craig seemed like a dark pool he could look at and imagine all kinds of things. Likely because Craig had entered spaces with and now knew things about Sean he couldn’t imagine.

Craig was smiling over there, which he pretended not to see.

“You know, I think you two are more alike than he realizes,” Craig said. “I can’t say about the personal stuff of course. But at least from what I’ve seen spending time with him in public.”

“What’d you mean,” he asked casually.

Craig cut off a tiny laugh, assuring him he was only fooling himself with his attempt at blitheness. Craig could probably see the sweat about popping on his forehead at the prospect of getting info from his secret time with Sean.

“What’re you referring to,” he tried again.

“Well, for one, you both don’t seem to have a type.”

He had no idea what effect Craig thought the statement would have on him, but it froze him, pouring slow ice water through his veins. 

“How would you know that?” _He_ didn’t know that.

“Imagine Stevenson, Bernal, and Hooper Floyd, all in a lineup.”

He lost his breath, blinking. “H-Hooper Floyd?”

Craig smiled. “Maybe Hooper’s not a good example. It’s hard to miss your resemblance to him.” 

His eyebrows went up. “I look like Hooper Floyd?” 

“No one’s ever told you that?” 

“No,” he said, offended. “Probably because I don’t look like a big hairy chimp swinging food around the kitchen.”

Craig smirked. “He’s swinging something.”

Blanked, he first blinked at Craig. Then scrunched up his nose, and began laughing helplessly. “How?” he insisted. “Does he even bathe? He tried talking to me once at an event at the Getty and ugh. So much for the natural musk theory.”

Craig cocked an eyebrow, though not looking at him, and he faltered, suddenly remembering just how much natural musk he’d driven two hours one way to go inhale last fall and his drunken sexual withdrawals that had had him lamenting things none of them would still completely fill him in on.

“Also . . . he was way too handsy,” he finished quietly.

Craig smiled. “Well, anyway.”

He served himself some fish laulau, digesting their actual topic. “So. . . he likes them?”

“You didn’t see that with Stevenson?”

He shook his head, trying _not_ to see the cringey embarrassment that had been his own behavior. “And you noticed it too with Bernal?”

Craig nodded. “Or maybe it’s just that . . . he’s a starfucker.” Craig caught his gaze and winked so slightly it might not have happened.

He just shook his head. “Well, I don’t know whether that’s a good way for us to be _alike._ ”

“It’s not at all a bad foundation.”

He left it as that, focused on eating before whatever he was about to hear on TV possibly destroyed his appetite for the next month.

Soon they were clearing up, loading plates and cutlery on the trolley and sending it back into the hallway outside the suite. Then Craig settled into the sofa opposite while he laid on the couch and faced the TV. Sourcing underneath his body, he found the remote and unmuted the TV, then setting it aside, tucked his arm behind his head and waited.

As promos for next week’s show ran, a couple minutes before the show began, his phone began buzzing on the center table. He turned and looked at it. His dad was calling? Fuck no.

The attempt ended, almost immediately followed by Elliot’s. He reached for it.

“Just go ahead and say something negative. I still have that number for a professional best man stand-in.”

“And here’s me calling to say I hope he kills it.”

“You’re calling to say you hope he kills it.”

“I’m calling to say that I love you, sweetheart,” Elliot said in his stupid Sean imitation voice. “And that I’m gonna kill it.”

Despite the situation, he was laughing under his breath. “Fine,” he said. “You can still be best man at my wedding.”

Elliot sent him a kiss and disconnected.

Setting the phone down, he looked at it for a moment, before turning back to the screen. “Why did I feel like Petey would call?”

“Maybe about the threesome?”

“Right?” he said, laughing. “Though, no doubt, I’d quickly find myself to be the third wheel on that particular bike.”

Craig laughed quietly over there for quite a while, so much that the show’s opening credits started and Craig still hadn’t pulled himself together. Which itself was rather funny. Probably Craig was having a moment reliving some vivid memory.

The show, meanwhile, had started.

Oprah began with a brief introduction of Sean, name, occupation, that kind of thing, wrapping up at Sean’s coming out on Valentine’s Day. Then told her audience she felt that was more than enough talk when “the man himself is. . . right here. Sean Jackson, people!”

There were roof-raising screams while Sean walked out. Slowly, maybe a little hesitantly, but only if you knew him. As usual, Sean simply took his breath away. Each time he saw him from more than a few feet away, it was like seeing him for the first time at the fundraiser. Sean looked just perfect, projecting cool confidence in a charcoal dress shirt and slate grey pants. All height and shy smile, and maybe clutching Oprah a little tighter than expected when they hugged.

Watching for nuance as though his life depended on it, he missed nothing. How little else mattered when you were in love, he thought, watching Sean smile down at Oprah, who even in four inch heels arrived somewhere just below Sean’s chin.

After Craig’s breakfast with Sean at Cavanaugh, Stevenson had reached him via Rachel—for the sole and express purpose of telling him how Sean had rolled up on Oprah and seemed quite surprised. Stevenson had sounded as surprised, people tending to assume about other people things that only applied to themselves. Stevenson had been surprised because hadn’t Sean hung out with Oprah already? At least a lunch? With an interview coming up, hadn’t Sean or his reps known to have done this, that or the other with Oprah’s team? And what did _he_ have to say about it, wasn’t he participating in the process? The message had come through Rachel, since Stevenson, being a media person, had gone through a route that in a pinch might be converted to something his bosses at CNN could use. In that vein, he hadn’t responded at all, letting Rachel have her fun with a smooth cut of a reply.

Now he saw it—the way Sean must have looked at Oprah at Cavanaugh as if to say _Please be kind._

He heard it watching the screen now as if Sean had spoken, and he took a long, silent breath. This was not going to be easy, an interview that could not have come at a less welcome time. But it was going to get done.

Then Sean kissed her cheek, making her laugh and her audience scream some more. But Sean’s plea was even clearer in that moment, and she slipped an arm around Sean’s back. The pat she must have given Sean was thus hidden from the cameras.

Invited to take a seat, Sean did, finding his mic and clipping it on while Oprah took hers. And after having given her audience time to finish their screaming, she turned to them, orchestrating a lowering in volume with a gradual lowering of her arms. Laughter, an exchange of jokes with Sean about it, and the interview began.

•


	5. Chapter 5

She began by making sure anyone tuning in knew it wouldn’t be the Howard Stern interview. Not explicitly but clearly enough, probably knowing there would be a crossover audience who had no clue what she actually did.

For him, the interview, unlike Howard’s, was different already because it didn’t revolve around nervousness of his friends getting a close look at the fiancé he wouldn’t introduce them to. He was acutely aware that this interview, whatever it would involve, involved him personally. It wasn’t going to be Sean fending off raunchy jokes and enjoying whatever fun Stern and his crew threw his way, out of confidence of having “won.” Anything Sean said on the show, he could confidently take personally.

She began by establishing legal protection for Sean. “Because these are sensitive issues, we’re making clear to the audience and to everyone watching at home that everything you say here is your personal opinion. You’re not speaking for the NFL, not speaking for the players, nor for any sponsors, or anyone else. Whatever you say on this show, whether about the NFL or outside of it, is you conveying your personal opinion and experience as Sean Jackson— _person._ ”

Sean slowly nodded. “Nicely done, Oprah.”

She and her audience laughed. Front row, Kara had been very subtly nodding throughout, ticking each point as Oprah hit it, then joining in the applause. He hadn’t been nodding, but had been checking off each item as well, and on Oprah concluding, knew they were all set for the interview to begin.

Oprah then spent a few more moments orienting her audience on the parameters of the interview—what she was going to ask and what she wasn’t. “Then we’ll talk about where coming out changed your life . . . and where it didn’t. And lastly find out from you where you think the future lies as far as open acceptance of gay men in professional sports.”

“Oh, is _that_ all.”

While the audience laughed, Sean gave a hard shake of his head as if dazed.

She began by getting Sean to talk about his personal history. What his family was like, what growing up in small town Iowa had been like, what his neighbors were like, what the town did at Christmas and during their terrible Midwest winters—“Here in Chicago, we just . . . go to work,” to laughter—what the town thought when he got famous, and what the Super Bowl was like for them now.

Questions which accomplished what they were meant to—being to make Sean seem simply like that kid from everyone’s own childhood or hometown who’d made it big. Endearing Sean against the more delicate things to come.

Which was soon enough.

“So you’ve been living this idyllic rural childhood, during those magical times known as the eighties—” audience laughter — 

“When did you know you were gay?”

As coached by the team he and Kara had put together for the personal questions—the NFL side, Kara had assured him, Paula would handle—Sean didn’t so much as take a breath. Making it look and sound as seamless as possible. Done perfectly. 

“That’s always a strange question, Oprah,” Sean said. “It’s like getting asked when you knew you were straight. It’s a completely made-up concept, because as a kid you don’t think of things in that way. But I’ll answer your question like this. There is an age at which the _world_ tells you you’re not like all the other kids. And that age is different for everyone.”

“And for you it was. . .”

Sean smiled. “You’re asking me to tell you about my first childhood crush.” Then Sean shrugged. “It was just some kid. He wore glasses.”

_So . . . not Davey then,_ he couldn’t help thinking. And was tempted to call Kay just to hear her screaming laughter. He could only imagine the complicated feelings Davey was processing right then.

“What did you do for this first crush? How did you treat _the one._ ”

“I used to pick him flowers.”

The audience aww’d, Sean quirked a self-conscious pull of his lips.

“How did that work out for you?”

“It didn’t. I wanted to play touch football . . . and he wanted to study bugs and collect plant specimen. That was pretty much it for heady first love.”

“Ah, career matters. So the usual.”

The audience laughed. “How old were you,” she pressed.

“Seven or eight.”

“Was that when the world told you that you weren’t like most of the other boys?”

Sean shook his head, told her that he thought at that age a kid was still too young to differentiate their behavior from any other kid’s, then softly told her, “What you’re asking, that happened when I was twelve.”

So, carefully, being an anchor point in the interview, she proceeded to guide Sean in unfolding the story Allison had told him—of Sean’s childhood moment of self-awareness, coming to understand the implications of liking boys instead of girls. Including about the deciding fight their family had had over Allison’s own sexual orientation. It was, and probably always would be, a story he could listen to every time and have it feel brand new. And it gripped Oprah’s audience the same way. Despite their usual facial performances for the camera, he could see exactly why it was such a powerful story—for no other reason that it was _the_ coming of age story.

And you could be over thirty, over-privileged, and only now understand what _coming of age_ truly meant.

“He told you that story?” Craig asked.

“His sister did,” he answered softly.

The story was also meant to function as the anchor point of Sean’s childhood, before the interview moved into the dicier waters of Sean’s professional life. He’d suggested it to Kara as an offering in replacement of much else, and specifically to gloss over Sean’s high school years. Because after having spent time with Anne and getting to know how private she could be, he’d one thousand percent not wanted any discussion of Sean’s closeted teenage years to play out on TV. He’d sensed how sacred that period of Sean’s young life had been to her—knowing that her gentle-souled son was gay and doing all she could in spite of her own prejudices to protect him. He’d been unable to stomach the thought of her sitting in her living room listening to the whole world hear about those delicate times for her family. She and Allison had cleared Allison’s coming out story for Sean to tell on the show, feeling it to be a good story to share to help other families. But Sean’s teenage years stories, he’d flatly told Anne he wouldn’t let even Sean himself sanction. The NFL was Sean on his own, as an adult: those stories were entirely Sean’s to share as he saw fit. So they had all agreed, leaving Kara to frame it for Sean. Seeing as, as far as Sean knew, he wasn’t involved. 

And then it was time for just that—Sean’s life in the NFL.

“When did you know you were destined for the NFL?”

“Pretty early on. By ninth grade, I’d say. It was either all the way or I’d been wasting everyone’s time.”

“That early?” Sean nodded. She then asked him to talk about the recruitment process. What had that been like, transitioning from being a young college football star into the NFL.

In spite of Sean proceeding to downplay the experience, merely saying at some point that it had been rough, it sounded . . . outright unpleasant, if you asked him. “And forget that you’re on every scout’s list. Forget that you’re being called the number one draft pick of the year. Doesn’t matter.”

“What was rough about it?” Oprah asked. “What do you mean when you say rough.”

Sean only skipped a beat. “Competition.”

But it was obvious that Sean’s heart had knocked like a bad engine. He saw it, Oprah saw it.

Oprah narrowed her eyes at Sean. 

It wasn’t Stern’s interview. Every skipped beat, adjustment of headset, or beard scratching to distract that Sean had done on that show to signal that they needed to move on, this was the interview that dwelled on nothing but that.

“Still, you make it right,” Sean said.

“What precisely do you make right?”

Sean took a second, then said, “The difficulty of the process. You put it behind you by getting the job done.”

Oprah nodded, once, then pointed at Sean. “So now you’re in the NFL. _The_ NFL. The dream of every kid who’s ever been in your shoes. _Your_ dream. But here you are — young NFL star. Closeted. The future of your team resting on your shoulders. But a core aspect of you locked down. That’s pressure. Right?”

“That’s the definition of pressure.”

“Okay. So here’s all this pressure, and you’re in a closed system. A lot of young NFL players let off pressure by doing all kinds of crazy things — getting into fights in nightclubs, DUIs, crashing their brand new hundred-thousand dollar cars . . .” the audience laughed. She turned to them. “Am I right? We read about it the following morning in the papers, just _wondering_ what the heck.” Confirmation nods from her audience. “But for so many of them,” she said, turning back to Sean, “that’s exactly how you cope with the pressure. By letting it _out._ But you never did any of that. Despite the compounded pressure of being closeted, we never saw you out there. So how did you manage it? What was your way of letting off pressure? And I ask assuming it’s something your mother can hear, since we can assume she’s watching.”

The audience laughed, including Sean. “Oh, she’s watching all right. Well, I can tell you whatever it was going to be, it had to be within the league’s code of conduct. Otherwise, and we don’t even have to get to my folks, my sister Allison would have ended me.”

Oprah laughed, and Sean nodded solemnly. “Allison would have killed me.”

“So what was your solution to avoiding a premature death at the hands of your older sister?”

“I taught myself better self-discipline. Yoga, meditation. . .” 

_Oh Christ,_ he thought. Sean was _not_ going to say he did aromatherapy on worldwide TV. . . 

“You know,” Sean concluded vaguely. “Things like that. Helped a lot in other areas as well.”

“Really,” Oprah asked, sounding surprised. “You know, I read that, when the producers did the initial info gathering for this interview. So you’re saying you applied those disciplines to help maintain your professional life.”

“Absolutely. Got me through a whole lot.”

“Good for you,” Oprah said, and on cue, her audience applauded, to which Sean nodded his thanks.

“So now you’re in the NFL. You have your orientation and it’s family. You’re figuring out ways to cope with the pressure and it’s yoga, meditation, what you’ve just said. So now before we get fully into your life in the NFL, I want you to explain to everyone watching what the single most important thing you want people to understand about the NFL. In general. What’s the first thing anyone walking in should bear in mind?”

“The pressure.”

“What we just talked about . . .”

“It’s all there is.”

Oprah folded her hands, let Sean talk.

“Goes beyond whether or whatever spills into the public eye. Every aspect of playing professionally is about precision and pressure. Yes, it’s just a game—”

“That lines a lot of pockets.”

“Yeah. . .”

“Creating a huge economy — and — employing vast amounts of people across all fifty states.”

“Not feeling any pressure over here at all, Oprah.”

She laughed along with her audience. “ _Now_ that we have that established,” she intoned, before nodding at Sean to continue.

“Actually, everything you just said. And this is in the context of a bunch of guys for whom this is a natural life skill. What are you going to do besides take it seriously? No less than a concert pianist, or finding yourself a gifted vocalist, art is intangible, whatever yours is, and maybe for that reason, even more demanding. And the better you are at it, ironically, the more pressure put on you.”

“And pressure . . . on yourself?”

Sean skipped a bigger beat than the question required. “Yeah, absolutely.”

Oprah nodded encouragingly.

“Well, that’s it,” Sean said. “That’s your primer on what it feels like walking into the league. Pressure starting from the locker room, all the way out into the field, all the way up to head offices, and right back down into the parking lot.”

In the silence that followed, a solitary yowl. 

Both Sean and Oprah turned to look. Sean with a blank expression and Oprah with a raised, knowing hand. She turned back to Sean, dipped her head and drawled, “That’s my cue _not_ to forget to ask you about dem locker rooms.”

Big laughter, followed by more yowling. Grim faced, she turned to her audience with a slow wave, as if calling them off. “We are _not_ talking about that.” Then, slowly, understandingly, “I get why we’re interested, but we’re keeping things strictly professional today.” She turned back to Sean, jerking a thumb at the audience with a slow shake of her head. “I don’t pick ‘em.” 

Sean laughed. When the audience settled down, she asked, “Is that the first question you always get asked?”

Sean nodded, slowly, repeatedly. “That’s the first question I always get asked.” And after a moment, Sean said, “And I do wanna answer the question, Oprah.”

She raised her eyebrows, sat back. The studio quieted, listening as Sean began explaining how being in the locker rooms was like going into the office, surrounded by your colleagues, but your work being getting whatever job done while inside a pressure cooker.

“Before a game, being inside the lockers it’s like running into the Vatican during the pope’s coronation, singing at the top of your lungs. Not done.” Everyone laughed. “Then wait until after the game. When you’ve had the life squeezed out of you by an opponent you should have had in the bag, then having to go inside. That’s after you’ve just done your walk of shame through the press corps, who’ve just said some hard stuff right to your face. That also being after you’ve successfully avoided eye contact with coaches who you know are taking deep breaths and going over what to tell management so as not to drop your ass. And then you finally get inside the lockers, where you know half the players are in there thinking they’d have their Super Bowl rings by now if not for your overpaid ass.” Sean paused. “And that’s on the day you won the game.”

The studio erupted. Laughter, applause.

Well, Oprah certainly knew what she was doing. Stern had outright asked the question, rather than sliding it in via audience reaction, but Stern had known it was better handled by himself, knowing how best to explain it to his audience. Still, Stern’s listeners were already open to non-mainstream thinking—while he was sure most people currently watching hadn’t thought much beyond having the locker room question front and center in mind. Her job was always to tactically bring to mainstream questions often only asked in whispers. Her producers, he felt, had handled it well.

“And on a good day?” Oprah asked. “What if everything went perfectly and you won exactly as the coaches expected. Which, if I’m hearing you correctly, is that even in winning you’re expected to do so by certain margins with certain opponents.” Sean nodded. “Okay, so you won exactly as you were supposed to, and coaches, teammates, everyone is happy. Is the locker room still a pressure cooker?”

“Oh, no,” Sean said flatly, extending a finger toward the woman who had yowled. “Then it turns into exactly what she’s imagining. Party central. Baby oil. . . leather. . .”

The studio fell apart, men and women howling and hooting.

“Not bad, chief,” Craig said. “Not bad at all.”

He didn’t know yet.

When the studio settled down again, Oprah took a breath and looked at Sean. Her expression seemed to say, _Ready? Here we go._

Resting her arms on her crossed knees, she leaned slightly forward toward Sean.

“Now we’re going to get into . . . the difficult stuff, Sean.”

“Ah, jeez.”

She nodded. “Okay. So you’ve told us how it is — everyone under the same pressures. All players. Where does it get different . . . for you.”

In the silent studio, Sean released a breath, lowered his head and began rubbing a knuckle against his upper lip.

“Where does it become — Sean Jackson, among the most celebrated players in modern times . . . gay and closeted. What is _that_ like.”

Sean took a breath. “Complicated.”

She watched how the word fell from Sean like a huge stone. Then she said, “Okay, so let’s take that one step at a time. And as I said at the top of the show, this is your personal experience, and you have every right to tell it.”

“Definitely.”

“Start with something I personally found fascinating — how did you avoid rumors of being gay? A lot of celebrities have that rumor attached to their names, whether true or false. Myself included,” she intoned deeply, drawing laughter. “How were you able to dodge that?”

“Probably because I’m boring,” Sean said. While the audience laughed, Oprah just smiled and shook her head. “No, I really think that’s it,” Sean said with a shrug, and on his couch, he could see that it sure wasn’t. “I mean . . . I don’t do much, I don’t go anywhere exciting. I read a lot, like watching movies, mostly I stay home and cook for the week, and I love a good conversation above most anything. That’s me in the offseason. What’s there to write about?”

The audience whooped happily at Sean, and Oprah pointed a well-manicured finger at them. “You’re not boring,” she told Sean. “Audience says no.” Laughter. “You’re an introvert,” she explained.

“Ahh, one of those.”

More whoops of support from the audience, to which Sean lifted a small thumbs-up.

And Oprah asked, “But someone had to have known.”

Sean glanced at her. 

Tense from the start, Sean had been trying to maintain a balanced emotional state. Now Sean looked so shy and stressed that he closed his eyes momentarily and sent him some love and support.

“Did someone know?” Oprah repeated. “I mean within the NFL.”

“Yeah,” Sean said, nodding.

“One someones . . . or two . . .” 

“Several.”

“At the top?” And at Sean’s nod, “Do you want to tells us who?”

Sean tipped his head, thinking, then slowly shook it. After a beat, she asked, “Were they supportive?”

“I had support,” Sean said.

Then Sean took a breath, and it was clear that Sean had decided to go ahead and give the interview he had come to give.

“The thing you have to bear in mind, Oprah, is that you’re not there for yourself. The NFL isn’t about you personally. It’s about what you’re doing there and for whom. So yeah, I had support, but . . . only up to a point.”

“What point was that?”

“The point where I had to keep . . . you know, everything else out of sight.”

“Everything else . . .?”

“Whatever I was feeling.”

“Being that you were gay.”

Sean nodded. “Being that I was human.”

There was silence as Sean stopped talking, knuckled his mustache again. “And listen. Don’t get me wrong. I had it all. Still do. I have more than most people’s share and I’m aware of that. But there was a total denial of you as a person that was . . . very difficult to cope with. And the point at which you’re expected to keep your so-called issues in check, exactly where you need that support, is exactly where it can very easily vanish. You get the short end of that stick pretty fast.”

“What you’re describing is—”

“Power dynamics.”

Oprah was quiet. “Power dynamics,” she repeated.

“Yeah. Completely unbalanced. They had it, you didn’t.” Sean paused. Then said, “You’re nowhere near in control.”

“Not even as a top five quarterback who makes a ton of money for the league and whom everyone agrees will likely make it into the Hall of Fame.” Sean grimaced self-consciously. “Hey,” she said, “those are your stats and figures. I didn’t make them up.”

“Not even then. Maybe especially not then. The more you have to lose, and all that.”

She lifted a finger from her knee. “What does it mean to not be in control and be you. In what was your specific situation.”

Sean was flushed a deep, intense red. “It means you wake up one day to realize that your awesome life is actually just minimum security prison. With certain . . . privileges.”

She watched Sean’s face. “What does minimum security prison feel like under those circumstances?”

“The boundaries of your life are defined by walls you can’t see. But you feel them constantly. You know the rules. And you just stick right to them.”

Sean lowered his head a little, scratched his beard. “Until one day, you realize it’s you holding the keys all along. You and no one else. And look, and I’m not referring to life and death situations out in the world. Or having your livelihood depend on staying closeted. Nothing like that. I mean the choices we come to convince ourselves are important, when it’s really about something else. Whether to hold on to fame and fortune, because that’s what you’re being told _this_ is — this being your life. Everything you’ve built up, everything your family’s scarified for. What you’re _good_ at. This was it, and at pinnacle. For me, personally, that’s what I came to realize it was all about. Have all that — or experience simple happiness.”

The studio was very quiet.

“That’s the choice you feel that you would have to make.”

“That’s how they made you feel,” Sean said, nodding.

“What happens at that stage? When the stakes — _your_ stakes become that clear to you?”

“The worst thing about having to hide anything is what you then subject yourself to.” Sean paused, seconds passing like days on TV. “It gets to the point where you become subjected even in your own head. You then carry on like that until helplessness is all you know. And anything at all that happens to you becomes acceptable. No matter — no matter that it’s eating you alive.”

Having stopped breathing a while ago, he only stared at the screen. Seeing . . . Sean Jackson. Not Sean, not the man he had fallen in love with, but the professional football player he had never personally met. Who was only now telling the world, himself included, his untold story.

“You had to put up with a lot,” she said.

“We all did. We all are.”

“Like what, Sean?”

Even knowing and seeming to be expecting the question, Sean still didn’t look prepared to have heard it.

“I can imagine,” Oprah said. “We all can, some of the things. But I want you to tell everyone watching, in your own words, a little of your personal experience.”

Eyes on Oprah, Sean bought himself time to raise protective shields. “Well, it’s private, Oprah.”

“I understand. But what can you tell us.”

Sean appeared to calm even more than he looked, then said, “The NFL is a world of men, so as you can imagine, things can get pretty aggressive. And some . . . interactions . . . could get . . . pretty chilling.” Sean paused, eyes firmly on Oprah.

“Interactions,” Oprah said, in her own time. “Chilling.”

Sean simply nodded.

“Official interactions?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“So not official interactions, but contact that was . . . chilling. What do you mean by chilling?”

“Well, I think the word speaks for itself.” Her expression didn’t appear to agree. And Sean added, “I don’t think there’s much point in getting into details.”

She gave it a moment, then said, “Chilling is a strong word.”

“Just strong enough,” Sean said, nodding.

“With whom?”

“All sides.”

“Corporate? Media?”

“All sides,” Sean quietly repeated. Then, tightening his lips, turned up his hands in a _That’s all I got_ motion.

Oprah sat back, let the words sink in silence. She kept her gaze on Sean, and Sean, lips still tight, just slowly lifted his shoulders and let them drop.

He laid in total silence on the couch, not entirely sure what he was hearing. Not sure if he was misunderstanding. And whether everyone else watching was simply accepting something he couldn’t.

“See, I would think that corporate — by which you’re referring to the NFL’s corporate structure — would be where your support would come from, considering your value to the system.”

“Up to a point,” Sean repeated, quietly.

“These . . . interactions, how do they fit into . . . the whole structure.”

“Well, you know, systems within systems. And if you’re already subjected to minimum security walls, well, I guess things are already set up to operate in a certain way.”

“This is an existence closeted players are caught up in,” she said. “A kind of _system_ within a larger one that keeps you locked in.”

Sean nodded.

“Are closeted players protected in any way?”

Very clearly, as if he could hear Paula speaking, Sean said, “Since it’s not some official NFL policy or anything, meant to . . . keep us down or anything like that, it’s an entirely private issue for individual players.”

Oprah dipped Sean a look.

“We found ways to protect ourselves,” Sean offered.

“How, exactly.”

“We have . . . support networks.”

She tipped her head. “Really.”

“Yeah. We wouldn’t be able to survive without them.”

“A buddy system . . . in groups . . . by regional conference . . . ?”

The audience breathlessly laughed.

“All of the above,” Sean said.

“But isn’t that ultimately the same for straight players too, though? Who also have to find ways to protect themselves over private matters — be that in medical, domestic issues, or for whatever reason, which could also be subjected to pressure and blackmail. Shouldn’t gay players be expected protect themselves in the same way without looking for special attention?”

“I assure you most of us wouldn’t mind those being the things we need protection from.”

Oprah said nothing for a moment, letting the the words stand on their own. “It was beyond the normal stuff,” she said.

“Oh yeah.”

More silence.

From across the center table, Craig asked, “Did he tell you any of this?”

He couldn’t even shake his head. He was still trying to catch his breath.

“How did you protect yourself,” Oprah smoothly slipped in.

But Sean didn’t slide in. Just looked at her.

“Physically?” she prompted in the same tones.

“No, I never had to deal with anything like that, thankfully.”

“ _You_ never had to?”

“No, not me personally.”

“Yours was . . . ?”

Sean shrugged, shook his head. But then paused for a truly horrifically long time. 

“There were games outside of the game,” Sean then said, and sounded distanced, as if talking about someone else’s life. “And they were not necessary, except that we were closeted and at the mercy of some very cold-hearted individuals.”

More silence followed Sean’s words.

“If that’s the issue,” she said. “Gay players being subjected to particular, aggressive . . . interactions, not sanctioned by the league, then shouldn’t gay players, through those very networks, approach team owners and the league itself and say this is what’s going on and it needs to stop.”

“Well, maybe after today we can.”

She continued looking at Sean, knowing there was something bigger there. That there was a lot she could ask. A lot _he_ wanted to ask. But of course she was also conscious of the number of parties watching, and knew she’d already opened up an avenue for anyone wanting to further pursue.

Oprah sat back, propped her chin in her hand and looked at Sean, while Sean simply returned her gaze.

“Would you like to add anything to that, Sean? To any of that.”

Sean slowly brushed his knuckle under his jaw for a good amount of time, his pale eyes on Oprah as though at a window through which choices on how to answer trooped by.

Then Sean simply gave another slow shake of his head.

“You no longer wish to speak to, or add anything more, to what you’ve said on the issue of closeted players having to physically or otherwise protect themselves.”

“That’s correct. Only to repeat that what I’ve said is the actions of individuals, and not any sanctioned secret policy by the NFL or anything like that.”

Oprah turned, looked straight into the camera. “Got that, NFL?”

Everyone laughed.

“Did you reach a tipping point?” she asked Sean.

Sean nodded.

“What’d you do?”

“Made a couple of life changes.”

“Such as?”

Sean smiled, shrugged shyly. “More yoga?” she asked, and Sean just laughed. “I, uh, was able to . . . I was lucky enough to get one or two people out of my life. Even something that small helped tremendously.” Sean turned to the audience. “Don’t underestimate the damage toxic people can do in your life.”

The audience broke into applause while Oprah said, “We know all about that on this show, don’t we?” to vocal agreement from her audience. She turned back to Sean. “Was that the point at which you came out?”

“No. At that point I just figured out how to manage my situation.”

“So did that turn out to be the biggest challenge for you? Those toxic things that were happening.”

“No.”

“No? Was it the pressure overall . . . the unbalanced dynamics?”

Sean was shaking his head. “No.”

She looked taken aback. “You didn’t find any of that to be the biggest challenges. None of those things you’ve just discussed as crushing and so different to cope with. Then what was? What was your single biggest challenge to being closeted in the NFL?”

“Falling in love.”

The audience ahh’d, while Oprah’s eyebrows went up.

“Doesn’t even matter how hokey that sounds,” Sean said.

“Explain that to me, Sean.

“For the sake of your career, you can make yourself cope with pretty much all of it. You just make adjustments as you go, like I said. But after falling in love, everything becomes a sacrifice you consciously have to make. At that point, you can almost actually see the prison walls.”

“Are you talking about a dividing line? _The_ dividing line?”

“Not so much a line as . . . a grey area, I guess. You live there for a while, knowing you’re in it, wondering how you got there, no idea what to do about it.”

“Why does living in a grey area become more challenging once you’ve fallen in love? Why does that become more difficult than _everything_ that’s come before?”

“I think because with other matters, you do something, and you see a result. But with this . . . nothing you do seems enough.”

“Nothing you do . . .?”

“For them.”

Oprah waited. And Sean sure took his sweet time answering. Staring at her as though he’d kept his courage plastered on her forehead. And seemed to find it.

“They might ask you to stay hidden, be very careful, and all you want is to break out in retaliation for them. Prove to them that nothing matters in the light of their love. Or maybe they pressure you to do more for them, and you do a million little things and hurt all the time because you know it’s not even close to nearly enough. It’s not what they’re asking.” Sean paused, before saying, “And then they might ask for nothing at all. And that, strangely, is worst of all.”

Sean lowered his gaze, all but physically brushed off memories. “Then it’s only a matter of time before something — you — breaks. So that even risking everything in coming out doesn’t seem like the worst that can happen to you.”

“It really gets like that.”

“It got like that for me.”

“And in your case, you maintained in that grey area for . . .”

“Just three years. I was lucky."

“You spoke of choices just now, being in the closet and in love. Can you give us instances of choices you had to make?”

_Sacrificing even the smallest things couples take for granted,_ he immediately mentally began ticking off. _For instance being able to make a simple phone call when you want to hear their voice; bringing them team keepsakes without being made to feel you’re plotting evil. Even the very acknowledgement of being in love, Oprah. There’s more, of course, but I think you get the gist._

Sean however was covering up a look on his face that simply said, _Had to make? I still am._

“Well, any number of small daily things . . .” Sean said, and he took a breath, closed his eyes. “But it was really about how it added up. You’ve given up an open, loving relationship, family, kids. But it’s not until you fall in love that it crystallizes that you’ve given up everything taken for granted in life to stay where you are. Permanently sealed off from yourself.”

“What happens at that point?”

“You begin to tear it all down. Even if you’re not aware of doing it. In my case, my performance suffered most of all.”

Oprah was quiet, nodding.

“On the field, I mean,” Sean said slowly, heavily, turning to the audience.

The studio broke into laughter, breaking the tension that had descended.

“Oh, thank God,” Oprah whispered fervently, bringing a smile to Sean’s face.

“Did you believe in love before this? Besides your heartbreak as a seven year old,” she asked.

Amid the studio laughter, Sean simply smiled. “Sure I did. It was that thing you read about in books and see in movies. Where a score by a French composer swells to introduce the leads under soft lighting.”

The audience broke apart laughing, as did Oprah. “It wasn’t that?’

“It’s not that. It’s that when you first _see_ each other. At least when I did. But love itself . . . the real life version, that’s pretty—” Sean laughed, self-consciously. “That’s very different.”

“How exactly?”

“Well, as I said, I can only say how it was for me. Didn’t really end at flowers and candlelight. Kinda more like a dragon. Burning everything in its path, including you. Especially when you’ve tried to get in the way with a damned leash in your hand.”

There were hoots of laughter. “You tried to tame it,” Oprah said.

“I did. And it ended up . . . Well, look at me. I came out smack in the middle of my career in the NFL, and now I’m on TV telling the whole world my private business.”

It got Sean a big round of applause.

“What would you have done, Sean,” Oprah asked, “had you lost it all? You came out for the person you love then lost your entire career over it. As an athlete having trained and wanted this since—”

“Since peewee football, beaning my pops in the eye.”

The audience laughed.

“And there was a period there when your team, the San Diego Chargers, did drop you. What would you have done, if after such a big positive move in taking charge of one aspect of your life, you lost what was essentially the rest of it.”

Sean expertly said, “I would have fought back, as we did when it almost happened. And because of the public support I received, I would have established myself as a media presence. And with the reps—” Sean pointed at the front row, “Kara, my publicist,” the camera cut to and Kara gave a lovely smile, waved a little, “and our phenomenal LGBTQ organizations, we would have taken the fight all the way.”

“You would have?”

“Sure. On alternate days with whatever gig I could score on ESPN? Absolutely.”

The audience ate it up, applauded, Kara nodding, joining in.

“Why not do so now?” Oprah asked. “During your offseason.”

“Because I’m still at the table. Thanks to the tremendous public support I’ve received since I came out, those community support organizations are starting to — well, let’s just say they’re getting some phone calls returned now.” Sean then turned to the audience. “And it’s all because of your support. So thank you, and please keep it up.”

The audience again broke into hoots and applause.

“And you said he wasn’t good at this,” Craig said.

He was as surprised as anyone. Was this the interview Sean had been so worried about? To the extent of Sean offering to be a media pundit on anything beyond football? He would have lost money betting on this interview.

When the applause died down, Oprah sat forward, chin on fist.

“Now tell us a love story, Sean.”

The audience exploded in screams.

While Sean tightened his lips and blushed so hard that the audience began aww’ing, laughing, applauding some more.

“We’re still keeping it PG, right?” Sean asked.

“Ouch,” Craig muttered, and on the couch, heart stopped, he sank into the cushions, mortified.

“You said you came out for love,” Oprah said. “And sent the media into a frenzy, because, oh by the way, you very conveniently omitted saying for _whose_ love.”

The screams broke out again, and Sean slowly, exaggeratedly, turned a stunned look at the audience. It got Oprah laughing as well. “What the hell,” Sean said, laughing, for the first time since the interview started looking fully at ease. “Maybe you should’a gotten _him_ on the show instead, Oprah.”

“And by him you mean . . . none other than Holden Wilson.”

On the studio wall behind them, a formal portrait of him from Getty Images filled the space. The audience screamed and howled, really loud, really sustained.

“What is even happening right now,” he said in resignation while Craig laughed. 

Oprah brought her gaze from the wall back to Sean.

“Why him?”

Sean fell quiet again, while his heart jacked against his ribcage.

“It was about trust.”

Oprah looked thoughtful, while he wished she would just hurry through this part. “What about trust. Whose?”

“Mine in him.”

“He was supportive.”

Sean appeared to consider the word. Then looking straight Oprah, “He was everything.”

The audience was practically moaning with feelings.

“So what was it about that trust that give you the strength to come out?”

Sean took his time. Gathered himself. “I trusted that he would never hurt me. I trusted that completely.”

“That was important to you,” she said gently.

“Yes it was.”

He swallowed, and kept doing it, until he had to stop before he suffocated himself.

“Was it ever a problem for him, you being in the closet.” Sean was shaking his head even before she was finished asking. “It never bothered him,” she confirmed.

“Never,” Sean said without skipping a beat.

That got them big, wild applause.

“You love him,” she said, nodding.

“With all my heart.”

The audience was barely coping, people placing hands on hearts, all of that.

“So he wasn’t collecting bug specimens while you were out playing touch football.”

Sean flushed hard. And it was only the god of coincidence he could thank for that horribly accurate out of context statement.

“How was he your everything during those three years,” Oprah asked. “Those three years you were together before you came out for him. Tell us a little of what your romance was like.”

Still flushed, but looking determined, Sean sat forward, said softly, “He’d leave me voice messages. Telling me a lot of nice things.” A hush had fallen over the studio. “And when I came home for the offseason . . . Well, he’s a great conversationalist and he makes me laugh. And he likes my cooking.” Sean glanced up at her, smiling. “He doesn’t find me boring.”

Oprah placed a hand over her heart, tossed her hair in a feigned swoon. Her audience was way ahead of her, cooing and giving it their all.

Then the interview was wrapping up. Thank God. She asked Sean about how his life had changed since he came out, and Sean simply glossed over it all by saying “Not much.”

She cocked her head at him. “Not even planning for a huge wedding?”

“No, actually, turns out it’s the same locker room type pressure.”

Then she asked Sean what he thought the future held for gay players.

“First, officially in the league. Do you see your coming out as the start of doors opening?”

“Yes, I do,” Sean said firmly, and got a round of applause. “A lot of people are working to make sure it is. There’s no going back from here.”

“So where do you think the future lies, as far as open acceptance of gay men in professional sports.”

Sean spread his hands, looked down at himself, shrugged. It was sexy, hot, exactly what made sense. Oprah tipped a sideways finger at Sean. “We are not mad at that.”

Her audience laughed, while she waved a hand. “But really. What do you say to NFL fans who’re worried that something like that might change the NFL somehow. You know what I mean, Sean,” Oprah said. Sean nodded.

Then Sean lifted a hand, dismissive. “I say who gives a—”

Sean had cut himself off. Looked at Oprah. “You know what I mean, Oprah.”

She smiled, nodded. “I sure do, Sean Jackson,” she said in a thick Georgia accent.

“Look, no one loves fans more than players. Which is important for fans to always remember — we’re on the same side. Aiming for the same scores. So what I’ll say is, all gay and closeted players need is your support. Just be there for them, and we’ll be able to play this game for you.”

The audience loved it.

“Sean, it’s been amazing having you here. We’re giving you the last word . . . you wanna do a plug for Holden Wilson? He’s the reason you’re sitting here.”

“I do,” Sean said. “But first I gotta do one for my sister and sisters-in-law, otherwise I’ll forget and, as we know, my safety’ll be in jeopardy. May I?”

She laughed. “It’s your show,” she said, indicating the main camera.

Sean turned to it and grinned. “Hey, Allison, Kay. What up, Michelle.”

Oprah laughed along with her audience, then turned to the camera as well, and in imitation of Sean’s tones, said with a raised hand, “Hey, Allison, Kay. What up, Michelle.”

And somewhere in Johnston Iowa, including in a John Deere office, three women _were_ screaming their heads off.

Oprah said, “Allison we know. And Kay is . . .”

“Her wife. And Michelle is my childhood friend. Also my buddy Davey’s wife. And they all said to say hi to you, by the way. I know I told you back there, but I guess if I don’t say it on TV, it didn’t happen.”

Oprah turned back to the camera, waved. “Hi, Sean Jackson’s family.” Then to her audience, with an inviting wave of her arm. “Say hi, everyone.”

When it died down she turned back to Sean, extended her arm, “And now for parting words on Holden Wilson.”

_Thanks so much, Alastair, thanks Cecelia ,_ he thought, embarrassed.

Her audience quieted, waiting.

Sean took a breath. And it was only in knowing Sean, in being the one who had loved and hurt him, could Sean’s words next words have hurt.

“You could live to be a hundred and never meet anyone like him.”

Sighs and applause.

“Sounds like a ringing endorsement to me,” Oprah said.

And Sean nodded.

And at last, it was over.

The mic was being passed into the audience.

“I just want to say,” the first woman with the mic said. “Wherever Holden is, he is lucky to have found a man like you.”

Sean didn’t nod. Or say thank you. Merely turned to to the next person to whom the mic was being passed, allowing the audience’s applause to stand in as reaction for him.

In the midst of all the cheering and carrying on that had been the last forty-five minutes, it wasn’t noticeable.

Except to the people to whom it screamed.

“Hm,” Craig said.

He seemed to lose time after that, as next he knew Sean and Oprah were on their feet, Oprah’s arm around Sean’s waist.

“Sean Jackson, everyone.”

Then the audience stood up, Kara’s sienna knee-length dress swishing around her knees, and one and all, gave Sean a standing ovation.

—

On the commercial flight back to LA, Craig scrolled the dark mysteries of his iPhone while he scrolled post-Oprah headlines.

Most were gibberish. Including TMZ’s, pinned to their landing page in their usual heavy-black font— _Sean Jackson to Oprah: ‘Holden Wilson’s demands forced me out of the closet.’_

Ugh, he was so over them. He continued scrolling google search results, seeing articles saying of course it now made sense why Holden Wilson had been in West Hollywood “showing off” the day before Sean’s Oprah interview, how it had all been for positive publicity.

He stopped on the headlines that blared about the fact that NFL apparently terrorized gay players into silence and submission. 

Those he read, most especially the comments, always being where someone with a grudge, or info, would drop something. He read headlines for nearly three hours of the flight before putting his phone away. Craig had the aisle seat in the business class section, maybe knowing to give him the window seat. From which he now stared out, watching the blazing sunrise and thinking about things he didn’t think he’d been brought up to expect, much less contemplate.

Had Sean spoken of love as a dragon in whose way you’d be foolish to stand? He closed his eyes. Tried to imagine who’d done those things to Sean. Tried to remember what Sean had been like returning from the season—whether Sean had indicated a need for help, and whether, in an entirely self-involved, self-protective existence, he hadn’t seen. Or seeing, had ignored. Inside his own facile world all those years, he had never bothered to stop and think what it might have been like on the other side for Sean.

There he’d been—attending fundraisers for causes among which the one he was with had been suffering.

What did that make him except the worst of hypocrites. 

It was in his nature and capacity to solve problems. But according to the interview, while he’d been busy feel precious about himself, Sean had had to solve his problems all on his own. _He_ was actually the only problem Sean had left.

His eyes were already closed. He set his temple against the plexiglass of the cabin window and imagined nothing except the two of them—alone, together, happy.

He needed to stop distancing them. When he got back to LA. He’d done it right in January by going after Sean in Johnston to be near him. Not stayed away in LA hoping Sean would figure it out on his own. He’d call him as soon as he got back into LA.

•


	6. Chapter 6

It was while sitting in Oprah’s green room waiting to be called up for the show that what had slipped him at Johan Wright’s BBQ—during the exchange about reps—came to him in a gradual, meandering way.

First it struck him just where he’d seen Paula’s floor plant before, why it had looked familiar to him. He’d seen a duplicate of it in Kara’s office. It had registered when she’d breezed in brushing it, since normally that would be where her coat rack stood and not a big plant. In fact he recalled walking into the meeting with Mark Hawthorne and glancing to his immediate right where the plant had been in Kara’s office, expecting to see one positioned there.

So right before the studio production assistant appeared in the doorway smiling and waving him up for his interview, was when he realized that Holden had sent his reps plants personally grown by his mother. With notes attached. It had been Holden who’d sent a note with the gifts, not Cecelia, and hence Paula’s confusion. Notes that, at least for Paula, had said something about a thanks, likely more. 

Back home now, and on his living room patio, it also suddenly came to him that the gesture, plus whatever Holden had written to Paula and Kara, had been the direct reason for both women’s much more preferable—wonderful, even—dispositions at a time he had badly needed it. 

In other words, while he'd been bogged in his concerns, Holden had been making sure the interview preps were being handled with as much tenderness as with care.

When Holden walked onto his patio therefore, the day after he returned from Chicago, he was truthfully probably as surprised about the way the felt—much more how he subsequently behaved—as Holden looked.

Unsure when they would be speaking next, but acutely aware now that they were running out of days before June, he hadn’t been too surprised when Holden had ditched texting and called him up the previous evening. How was he, he’d done a great job; was he okay with how he had done, he’d been amazing. Thanks, he’d said, all fine and thanks.

“Can we have dinner?” Holden had blurted. Voice benign, deferential. “Nothing to do with anything. Just dinner. Just . . . you know, because. Can I check that you’re okay?”

It was a replay of one year before—his coming out, Holden missing in action for six weeks, and then calling him up and haltingly asking in five different ways, the same thing: _Can I see you?_ It even felt the same way—Holden not wanting to pressure, to give him all the time he needed. Maybe those positive memories added to what he’d just realized. Except with one major difference.

Sure, he’d told him. But he wasn’t ready to talk about anything— “No, nothing like that.” But if he just wanted to grab a meal, no problem. Did he want to come up to Malibu or should they meet up somewhere?

“I’ll come up.”

So it was on this jumbled tapestry of emotions—and then with utter raptness—that he watched Holden slowly come through his living room and step onto his living room patio, then stop completely at the sliding doors on seeing Ricky leaning causal as you pleased next to him on the railing. He and Ricky had been talking, their backs to the ocean.

He hadn’t planned it. Ricky, true to style, had only just called—he was in LA, could he stop by? No biggie if it wasn’t convenient.

Almost speechless with surprise, he’d said of course. Twenty minutes later, Ricky had been pulling into his driveway.

Twenty minutes after that, so was Holden. Who’d had to have parked right next to Ricky’s Lamborghini. Rented while in LA, for some supercar closed street racing down in Long Beach, for which Ricky was famous during the offseason. In anticipation of the sudden influx of cars in his usually deserted driveway, he’d moved his Navigator into the car garage.

Holden was standing at the patio’s threshold with his eyes motionless on Ricky.

Holden was staring as though seeing alien life form for the first time. And worse, a hostile form.

Surprised, heart kicking, he too couldn’t quite react, only taking in the slightly frightening look Holden was giving his former teammate.

“Hi,” Holden said.

Even as early as last week he would have rushed to correct Holden’s misconception. He wanted to even then. To assure Holden that nothing had happened between him and Ricky—despite having wanted it more than he could have expressed at the time, back when he’d been younger and believed in clearer things—because Ricky was straight.

Instead, he said nothing at all. Only watching the look on Holden’s face as intently as Ricky was simply relaxed and absorbing it. Holden was just staring at Ricky, who continued returning Holden’s completely disbelieving gaze with his ever cool one. He was watching in his own state of surprise and disbelief. It was as if he wasn’t on the patio at all.

Holden was waiting for a response to his greeting. Ricky didn’t bother.

“Sweetheart, this is Ricky. Ricky, Holden.”

There was nothing except silence. Then Holden came forward from the sliding doors like the house was his, hand extended.

“Hi, nice to meet you. Thanks for stopping by.”

Quite aside from the strangeness Holden had just uttered, Ricky still didn’t immediately take Holden’s hand. Just remained relaxed, expression aloof, borderline disinterested. Then Ricky reached forward and took Holden’s hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, Holden.”

A half-hour ago, Ricky had been telling him he hadn’t needed Oprah to tell him Holden had to be “nothing short of one in a million” to have landed him. “He’s gotta be much more than you’re telling anyone. And I mean forget having come out for him. Every player before you who didn’t come out for the one they loved didn’t love their guy any less than you. Sounds to me there’s more, and I’m guessing it’s that American billionaire ingredient. You mix that up with _you,_ and he probably didn’t know what hit him. People talk all the time about how they’d change the world for the one they love. He’ll probably actually be able to do it.”

Shaking his head, he’d told Ricky he didn’t know about all that, only that _Holden_ was hands-down the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him. To which Ricky had first finished eating the chocolate whip, kale, and pastrami sandwich Ricky had made for himself, finding the ingredients in his kitchen like he lived there. Leaving him smiling and shaking his head to himself when he saw what the results were to be. Food and Ricky were like most people and lottery numbers—just some randomness.

Finished, Ricky had put his plate in the sink, just like Holden, putting everything he’d used away. Washing his hands, Ricky said, “You don’t have to know anything about it. Just take my word for it — together you’ll do great things. Just let him.”

Now Ricky said nothing, did nothing, while Holden stared as if the phrase “a pleasure to meet you” were a call to arms.

In ever unhurried tones, and definitely not about to be hurried off his patio or out of his house, Ricky said, “Heard a lot about you.”

Holden’s face lost all expression. Now looking as serious as a death trap trying not to look dangerous. 

Through shaking Holden’s hand, Ricky had once more relaxed his elbows on the railing. Eyes inscrutable under the brim of his Madison Badgers hat—which Ricky had worn for him, kinda maybe helplessly melting him a little—Ricky’s shiny black goatee and full beard, covering his full upper and lower lips, coupled with the shadow of the hat’s brim, made a total mystery of Ricky’s thoughts. Opaque at the best of times. Having been on the other side of it for a long time, he didn’t envy anyone having to be there now.

He was used to it. Had spent several years pinning after it, before ultimately accepting that _it_ didn’t want him in the same way. Rejection which had made room to learn that people could help in many ways, as long as you didn’t walk around thinking you’d recognize all the ways help came. When it came to being gay in the league in those early years, before he’d found networks of support he could believe in or even trust, Ricky had been his bedrock. He had been in love with Ricky in a very particular, and he saw now very narrow way, but no question, it had helped save him. They didn’t keep in touch much, but many personal survival skills, he had learned from Ricky.

Holden didn’t appear to need either envy or pity from Ricky. 

Standing aside at the sliding doors, Holden didn’t seem to have registered that besides the stony look he’d given, he had, in turn, failed to respond to Ricky’s attempt at communication when saying he’d heard a lot about him. Instead Holden simply, casually moved to the side, like someone politely making room for an exit to take place.

Ricky shifted, indicating that it was indeed exit time.

Ricky was actually in town for league business, being the current Philly Eagles players’ rep as well as their star running back. They hadn’t attended Wisconsin-Madison together, hence his flattery at Ricky wearing his college team hat. They’d only played together for the Vikings, him as the number one draft pick that year and Ricky as the year before. Ricky had simply wanted to stop by after Oprah. After the latest trash TMZ article. In gladly saying come over, he’d been eager to shrug it off with someone who’d very much understand.

But Ricky’s presence was somehow serving so much more. More than he could have arranged had he tried. He realized now that Ricky must have assumed he and Holden lived together, and could expect to encounter Holden in his house. And Ricky didn’t read TMZ as a habit, as far as he was aware. His former teammate knew exactly what he was doing. Ricky was being protective of him. In a way that even Davey couldn’t.

Pretending he wasn’t the one catching all the knives Holden was throwing, which by virtue of position were all ending up in his back, he walked Ricky to his front door.

There, Ricky pushed a finger up against the brim of his hat and looked straight at him. His coffee eyes were as always. Alert, yet serene.

And he lowered his head, almost smiling as he remembered for how very long he had wanted something from Ricky. Something hot and deep and so, so unrequited. Until blue eyes, this time, belonging to an angel, had permanently moved in, permitting hardly room for his own thoughts, much less a whole other person. Now he looked at Ricky and saw only the things that were not Holden Wilson.

As for Ricky . . . Ricky liked him a lot. Probably even loved him in the way he could. But Ricky was . . . well, Ricky—never able to give anyone anything. On the road, women thought he was gay and hiding it. But Ricky’s problem was worse than hiding a secret. Ricky was an intellect. The consummate introvert, and so all the world a burden. Eventually Ricky would find someone. Problem was, it might not be in the way or even who he was expecting. And when it happened, he hoped he’d be able to be there to tell Ricky, _It’s just the way it goes._

“Are you good, Sean?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I am.”

Ricky hugged him, and he hugged him back. Thanked him for stopping by. Then he watched as Ricky got into the tangerine Lamborghini—speed wasn’t his or Davey’s style at all—and listened to the big car purr to life. Ricky pulled from his driveway and spun into the street. There was a couple seconds delay, then Ricky flashed his high beams at him and the Lamborghini simply vanished from his street.

Behind him, inside his living room, Holden strolled in from the patio — headed for his bedroom. “I’m gonna shower and get out of these clothes.” Then from farther in, “I don’t feel like going out for dinner anymore.”

He turned and looked at him. But Holden was already inside the bedroom.

—

Their ordered food stayed in the living room until Holden was done with him.

He was clutching the headboard behind him, grinding himself onto Holden’s lap, his own cock being squeezed and milked in Holden’s graceless grip. Falling off the edge of the world, he barely remembered what had happened, how he had even gotten there, only that there would be red fingerprints on his ass that night, and that he was rolling toward a deep, hard climax.

Curling his leg around Holden’s waist, he let his head sink into the pillow, relaxing everything except his hips, and began gasping at the ceiling.

•

Petey was staring with a blank expression at the hi-res image on his super large, bells-and-whistles phone. A phone that rendered the image Petey was looking at particularly sharp and vivid. Even from across the table it was like seeing him in the flesh again. Then Petey held up the phone, to confirm that it was him, and now it seemed he was looking into the cool dark eyes again. At the gorgeous matching skin, narrow face and sharp-bearded jaw of the NFL player he had been unable to bump from his thoughts.

Wordlessly, he nodded. Petey lowered the phone, continued staring.

It was the morning after and he’d interrupted Petey at breakfast on his boss’s balcony, efficaciously swiping at his phone’s screen. Petey dated online absolutely never, but maintained a profile on all the platforms, with an explanation that he could then see what was out there and make decisions accordingly. Once, he’d peered at Petey’s phone and gotten a glimpse of the myriad requests for setting up a profile and had broken into a sweat. Who could tap through and fill in so many boxes and still retain why they were doing any of it.

“Well, I mean,” Petey sighed, staring at his phone. “I’d kinda fall in love with him too. He looks like a dripping hot, super fit Kendrick Lamar. Like he’d recite poetry to you after making you ride him all night.” Petey sighed, set the phone on the table. “I think it’s intentional.”

None of which came close to anything he’d come to hear. He didn’t even know what he’d come to hear, more that he’d needed to get out of the office.

“You can see that, right?”

“What I’ve never seen is— anyone _else_ at his place. Not ever. It made me feel like— like . . . ”

“Some slut was in your house trying to take your man?”

He couldn’t even nod. What exactly was happening to his life this close to them _resolving_ so much. Now he was living the nightmare he seemed to have created years ago, wishing Sean would do exactly this and give him space to leave and return as much as he wanted.

“Don’t look so sad. It’s obvious Sean is just trying to make you feel a little of what he’s going through. We all get like that.”

He nodded.

“What’d you say to him?”

“To Sean? Nothing. To _Ricky?_ You don’t want to know what was going through my head. I’d be in jail if thoughts were real. And the worst part was, he had this look on his face like he knew exactly what I was thinking.”

Petey picked up his ginger-guava breakfast smoothie, and slowly, delicately, took a sip. “What a bitch.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up from the blueberry chai seed whatever his was that was diluting itself in his glass. So he’d hurried back to LA with the feeling that keeping his distance until Sean wanted to talk wasn’t the best strategy, and the resolution of wanting to protect Sean going forward. All it had gotten him was a hard shock to his system.

“Why do I feel sick? My heart is racing and I feel nauseous,” he said, looking at the smoothie he hadn’t touched.

“You’re experiencing jealousy. To which, never have been exposed, you probably have no immunity. Drink your chai. Just so happens the seeds are an immunity booster."

Probably, he also needed to stop coming to this damn balcony.

•


	7. Chapter 7

Thursday morning, 10am, he was on the Paramount Studios lot. Kara looked so happy and pleased to see him that for a second he thought she was going to rush up and hug him. She probably had been, only catching herself when she saw his slightly widened hands preparing to catch her if it was just a stumble. She did neither, not stumbling or hugging him, but straightening and beaming at him, then hustling him toward the massive sound stage building.

“Did you make it through _all those_ the congratulatory emails and texts?”

“Well,” he said, “there were certainly a number of them. . .”

“You were amazing, Sean. Amazing. I’m not just saying that. Your honesty shone through, the vulnerability, everything. It was _perfect._ ”

She’d spent the last couple of days gushing to him, and by now he felt she didn’t actually need his replies to stay high.

“And the league?” he asked, easily keeping up with her long strides. Even though there was no need, seeing as they were actually ten minutes early. “Officially, I mean. All Paula’d say is that we have no problems. I assume she means legally. I _assume_ that considering all the headlines about the league threatening gay players into silence.”

Kara waved a hand and made a dismissive sound. “No one’s coming after you over salacious headlines. You accused no one of anything. Jim Liniker actually even called to extend his congratulations.”

Thankfully, they’d reached the sound stage door and someone had flung it open, revealing the ad executive Dahlia in the dim corridor leading from it. She was surrounded by production set assistants, who broke into applause on the door opening.

“Good morning, Sean,” Dahlia said, sexily. “You crushed it,” she said, rotating a finger. “Oprah’s given me a challenge.”

Everyone began chatting at once, walking them down the dim corridor harnessing his attention to the present and saving him from having to push down the bile Kara’s statement had raised in him. Just how the hell names like Jim Liniker, Kevin Bendis and Troy Patterson were suddenly hovering around him again, a month to his wedding no less, was anyone’s damned guess.

The walls of the production offices they were taken into were papered with all kinds of versions of the Patek campaign artwork. The offices were to serve as the central hub for the upcoming shoot. No models on set yet, thankfully. He hadn’t looked at the artwork since putting them away last week, and now, skimming his eyes over the things, he refused to let anything but amazement and appreciation show through. 

She walked them through the adjoining offices containing wardrobe, makeup, the sets being built, then returned them back to the main office with the images on the walls.

“This campaign,” Dahlia declared, stopped in the middle of the office and sticking a finger toward a wall. “Is gonna be next level. Game changer.”

“All right!” Kara said, hooting, and the production staff all joined in, applauding. He smiled, hands in pockets, nodding.

—

By 5pm, he hadn’t touched a single thing on his schedule—neither looked through the ad agency’s production schedule nor at any page in his Soirée binder—although, as promised, he was abiding by the twenty-four turnaround in returning approvals to Marissa. 

But recognizing that he couldn’t manufacture concentration, he considered instead that he’d do no work at all and call it a long weekend. Just take it easy and re-calibrate, start back up on Monday. Next week was the last in May and mid-week was the team’s charity golf tournament with Alastair’s cadre of rich friends. And all those arrangements were, thankfully, complete.

Meantime a few of the guys were passing through LA and buying drinks. Maybe he’d just hang with them and let his mind float.

So when Holden then called offering to take him out to dinner, he accepted. What difference did it make. After having said his piece on Oprah, he’d reached a dead end anyway. Having flushed the Bendises, Patterson and Linikers from his life, the TMZs and whomever else were free to have them. He was all out of strength for any decisions right now, nor did he know what decisions he’d make even if he could.

Not quite the afloat state he thought he’d be in after Oprah, but there it was.

Holden came over after work and showered, emerging from his bedroom looking stunning enough to stop time. Hair hand-raked, skin scrubbed and flush with color, and even from where he stood in the foyer filling his senses like an orgasm.

Holden stared at him in a quiet, aggressive way.

“Ready?”

He nodded, picking up his wallet from the foyer table. Holden was driving so it was all he needed.

“Where’s Ricky?”

He glanced over at him. “What’d you mean?”

Holden had reached him at the front door, now passing through, only to turn and look at him. Stopping both of them from leaving the house.

“I mean where is he?”

“As in where in the world?”

There was a loaded silence, during which Holden simply stared at his Lexus. Until he realized it wasn’t his own car’s presence Holden was staring at. “No, as in LA.”

He lifted a shoulder. Holden didn’t move. So they couldn’t go anywhere. So he said, “He lives in Philadelphia. I assume he’s back there.”

Holden brought his eyes from the empty space between his Lexus and his house and looked at him. Blue eyes so deep, so seemingly uncomplicated, yet so very not so. Those eyes searched his face.

“Let’s not think about him anymore,” Holden said quietly.

“Good idea, sweetheart.”

Holden had moved off the threshold, allowing him to turn and close the door behind him and check that the security had engaged with its flash of red light. Instead he found himself spinning, arms extended, to catch Holden, who had somehow decided that to be the best time for a kiss.

It wasn’t until their honeymoon, a full month and a half from then, that it suddenly occurred to him what Holden had been trying to do, only because it happened again in Kauai. Like a do-over Holden had wanted to get right.

Apparently, like in movies, Holden had thought to just lunge in and kiss him, a practice that had always left him baffled seeing it in movies. If someone were to suddenly attack with a kiss, he was pretty sure teeth would get clipped. At the very least.

Which was precisely what happened to them. Holden suddenly came for him, grabbing his arms to perhaps pin him against the walkway wall, only to stumble into him and send him backward into the wall and clip his lip against his teeth.

It was as painful as he had forever feared.

Eyes smarting, first pressing a fist to his lips, he slowly lowered his forehead to Holden’s shoulder. Squeezed his eyes against the pain.

Arms stopped in motion around him, Holden froze as well, before gently taking him in his arms. “Oh, no,” Holden said softly, sounding genuinely surprised. “What just happened,” while he waited for the pain to pass. It always did, usually with little fuss from him. But why it hurt so much more than being hit on the field, he’d never know.

Holden pulled him into his arms, laying gentle kisses on his neck. “I’m sorry, Sean,” Holden said, his normally confident tones hoarse with emotion. Trembling a little. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t meant it. I didn’t mean any of—” With a hard breathe he pulled away from Holden, straightening. Nodding his understanding, meeting his eyes briefly to prove that everything was okay, then walking around him, heading for his Lexus.

He couldn’t do it right now. Not what Holden had been about to do. He’d said he couldn’t as a condition of Holden being back up there and he meant it. Not when his thoughts felt even more jumbled than two days ago.

He felt more than saw Holden turn and watch him. But Holden didn’t say anything, just hurriedly followed.

—

They were having an early-ish dinner, the sun was still a good half hour away from setting, leaving the sky slowly dimming around them. They were in a small back garden patio, past whose ivy covered iron fence Los Angeles spread like a million dreams, just starting to twinkle to life. Holden was across from him, murmuring that he was starving, having forgotten to eat much at lunch because of some mix-up with meetings that had left them short on time.

Holden seemed nervous, though calm. The calm part being simply because they were there, together. That was Holden always—as long as they were together, nothing mattered; they’d figure out the rest together.

The garden was semi-private. Theirs was the only table in the immediate vicinity. The space was delineated by lovely art-deco style stone paths, lots of flowers. And between Holden’s checking-in-on-you attitude and the space itself, he was reminded completely of their morning in Paula’s backyard. Where, six weeks after his coming out, this part of their life together had really started. Now it was almost exactly one year later. And what he realized now was that it had come to a close. Even fitting that it had started with breakfast and was closing with dinner. He had come out to the world and . . . Holden had come out to him.

What really, he wondered, came next?

—

When they returned from dinner, he sat in the passenger seat of Holden’s Lexus for a long moment, then told Holden he’d like to spend the night by himself.

Silence answered him, and glancing over, he found Holden staring toward his front door, only to quickly bring his gaze back to him and nod. He wasn’t even sure Holden knew what they’d been talking about.

Mystified, he glanced at his front door, wondering whether Holden was concerned about their earlier accident, as uncharacteristic as that would be, when it suddenly occurred to him that it wasn’t the door Holden seemed to fearing, but what might lie beyond it. It took a moment, but he realized that Holden’s eyes were trying to penetrate the heavy oak doors. He recognized it as the same look he used to give Holden’s own front door.

Surprised for the second time in as many days, he sat there wondering how he felt about it. At how Holden was behaving over Ricky, who was just one guy.

On a small impulse, he turned to Holden, with a feeling he’d never had. A feeling Ricky’s visit had left him with.

“What’re you doing tomorrow night?”

“Nothing,” Holden immediately said.

“Why don’t you come out and meet some of the guys from the league. We got a few in town and someone’s paying for drinks in some downtown bar.”

Holden stared at him as if he wasn’t sure whether he was messing with him.

“Sure . . . ”

And on a further whim, “Bring your friends.”

That had Holden pausing for quite a while. Then cautiously, “Sure . . .”

Turning in his seat, he took in Holden’s studied blank expression—Holden not wanting to show anything going on inside him in case it proved to be wrong thinking. Leaning over, he pecked his check. Holden turned so that their lips touched, and he paused a second before gently brushing a light kiss across Holden’s mouth. “See you soon,” he whispered, his eyes on Holden’s very still ones. Then he got out of the Lexus and headed for his front door.

•


	8. Chapter 8

Petey, Elliot and even Craig were staring across the bar. As was he. Their drinks had long been served but sat mostly untouched.

Across the bar from their couches, at which they’d arrived about half an hour ago, Sean stood in the company of his NFL friends. Last fall while drinking away his sorrows he’d tried to explain to Elliot and Petey what he’d seen going down to Sean’s training camp. But there’d been no describing anything so visceral. Now they were all looking at essentially the clothed version.

Sean’s group had created a gravitational mass toward the center of the bar that was sucking everything into its orbit, including a tail that had formed outside the bar. The establishment manager had come out to welcome them, with barely contained joy and satisfaction, telling them that “those gentlemen” would be covering their tab and for them to please enjoy their evening and to let him know if they needed anything. And then softly, passionately, first wagging a finger toward him, indicating his chest, then fisting up both hands with a shake, “Congratulations, Mr. Wilson! You’re marrying into the NFL. Give ‘em hell!”

Surprised, he laughed before he could stop himself, then tightened his lips and nodded, while the manager beamed broadly at him, before nodding and leaving them. And were he not in existential fright for his relationship, he would have laughed himself to tears when a short while later a piece of paper with a name and number arrived for Elliot.

The manager, big, beefy, and Persian, had tried to engage Elliot on the mistaken belief that Elliot too was Persian. Subsequently sending a handwritten apology for his mistake. Hysterically, the note included an unnecessary phone number and basically a micro dating profile. Elliot had calmly crumpled then dropped the piece of paper close enough to his drink that the condescension soon soaked and made the note useless. But he had plucked it up and set it apart from the tall glass, at which Elliot had spared him a look which he pretended not to see. “He’s a manager and he’s older,” he told Elliot. “He’ll take good care of you.” Elliot had ignored him.

But that had been a while ago. Now, gazes locked across the bar, they were all mesmerized.

“Jesus,” Elliot breathed, when one of them jabbed the other in what was clearly a hard stomach and that one laughed, backing off while slapping his assailant ever so lightly in the face. If he thought Sean was a polar bear during the offseason, it was like a herd of brown bears playing with the polar bear over there. Exciting to watch didn’t begin to describe it.

Still he was only taking it all in tangentially. If however Sean started in on any of that action, he’d be other there taking it _directly_ before Sean was through chuckling or love tapping anyone, and Elliot could keep his T-shirt.

Elliot had insisted that he wear a T-shirt, in case he hadn’t mentioned. A Chargers one. Whose logo across his chest was what the manager had so happily pointed to. Wearing a casual T-shirt out was something he hadn’t done publicly probably since middle school. But it was more than that—Elliot had also said to rinse the conditioner from his hair. He’d protested that he didn’t have the cool to show up in a bar in a sexy distressed football T-shirt, with post-sex hair. But Elliot had flatly told him it was either that or they were going in work clothes, period. Having had enough of Elliot’s stress for one lifetime, he’d simply complied.

Startled and suspicious of Sean suddenly inviting them to the kind of event Sean normally wouldn’t, Elliot had repeatedly queried why. He’d shrugged, evasively, insisting that maybe it was just, you know, in the spirit of them both opening up their lives to each other, that after Oprah’s interview, maybe Sean just felt more comfortable doing so now. 

“I guess,” Elliot had replied. Elliot had shown thoughtfulness and surprise at Sean’s interview, professing to have seen “nuances” he hadn’t noticed before. Which had just had him shaking his head without adding anything. But Elliot had then proceeded to orchestrate the evening on their end nonetheless, instructing them all to do nothing but sit there and have drinks and see what happened.

“Oh, and you should wear his team T-shirt.”

They’d been talking over the phone so he thought he’d misheard. “I should wear his team T-shirt?” he asked in confusion. Then listened as Elliot explained why.

Skeptical about the plan, not still quite trusting Elliot’s understanding of Sean, he’d entered Craig’s office at the close of business and asked Craig for his thoughts.

At his keyboard and seeming more focused on what he was typing, Craig asked, “Elliot said you should do what?”

He repeated himself.

“Then you should.”

He paused. “Aren’t you curious as to why he’d say that?”

Craig smiled slightly to himself over there. “Not really.”

So he’d worn the T-shirt, paired with a marigold yellow trousers, and a light blazer on top for a little self-comfort, then allowed Elliot to run his fingers through his hair, and was now sitting there feeling totally self-conscious and out of his element. Thank God Petey wasn’t doing social media on this one since it wasn’t about him and Sean; he had no idea what he looked like from the outside.

He sent Craig a look. Craig wasn’t into buff guys, men in suits, or really anything but the sexy nymph type. But Craig was staring as well. And when caught Craig’s eyes with abject surprise, Craig merely gave him an amused look before turning his attention back to Sean and his friends.

“Does anyone feel like we’re being sent a message?” Elliot asked.

“Holden is,” Petey said instantly.

“What’d you mean?” Elliot asked.

“What’d _you_ mean?”

“Well, it’s obvious that after everything Holden told him, he wants Holden to see that— he’s got options too. I mean, it’s basic ego survival mechanism.”

“Exactly,” Petey said, thus skating around bringing up Ricky.

“You believe that too?” he asked Petey. Petey gave him an apologetic look.

“It’s not about what I believe, Holden, it’s what he’s over there doing.”

“But that’s—” Sean wasn’t like that. He looked at Craig, who very subtly lifted a shoulder. “What,” he asked him.

“Think of it like a buffer he needs, while he makes up his mind.”

He was shaking his head even before Craig was through talking. 

“No?” Petey asked.

“You just— you don’t know him. He’s not like that.”

“Holden,” Petey said in exasperation. “No one here’s new to this game. Sean’s human like everyone else. And he’s allowed to feel this way. He’s probably very confused, and who wouldn’t be. So just— let him have his buffer.”

He looked over, and leaving himself out of it, saw that it was what Sean was doing. He was over here and Sean was over there, and while he’d thought that Sean asking him and his friends out was so Sean could introduce him to his friends like Sean had done at training camp, the truth was that since they’d arrived and settled in, Sean had barely spared him a look.

He wanted desperately to tell his friends whatever, they didn’t really know Sean, so what they were talking about, but there was a fat, cast iron rod going from his throat all the way down into his stomach that wasn’t allowing him to speak any more on the subject.

And he was worried. Because Sean really had barely looked his way. And he wondered whether Elliot was thinking what he was, that with all that butch hugging and happy touching and laughing over in-jokes, all of them contentedly participating in selfies and Stories and signing autographs, and Sean seemingly having no problem having him stay in background, they’d miscalculated.

It had been a while since he’d worn a Chargers T-shirt in Sean’s presence, and maybe its potency had simply worn off. He did it all the time at home, so what it was bringing back now wasn’t actually helping him. Memories of wandering his bedroom late at night last winter before sleep took him, wondering just how he was meant to do this every year. Not spend nights with the one he loved and without whom everything looked dull and grey. Alone with only a T-shirt for physical connection.

He’d thought the T-shirt, meant to signal acceptance and submission, according to Elliot, and most importantly in _public,_ was a seriously ridiculous plan. But it should have been a guarantee. So . . . was it simply no longer working for Sean? Was this what the _buffer_ was all about? And Ricky . . . and tonight? Was Sean over all this? 

No sooner thought than Sean looked over. Lasered him right thorough with a look before turning away.

He blinked, trance broken, still staring. Sean looked again.

Second time, he was ready. Lips rolled tight, gaze hopeful, he lifted his hand and gave him a small wave.

“Oh _Lord,_ H.”

He turned and looked at Elliot, who was giving him a dark look.

“What,” he asked softly.

“Could you be more desperate?”

“But— I thought you said the idea was to be more . . .” he lowered his voice even more. “Less Alastair Wilson’s son and more . . . guy in bar with friends.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t say anything about doing it like some strained groupie trying to say hi to the quarterback. Sit back and try to act cool. Stop being tense.”

So . . . just another way of saying for him to give up.

He should try and act cool when Sean had invited him to sit there and watch other men paw him. Yeah, okay.

Well . . . at least it was in a bar and not Sean’s damned house . . . 

“Seriously, though,” Elliot said softly. “How do you handle . . . _any_ of that? I’m sorry, but you can’t be homosexual and not lose your mind in those locker rooms. Aren’t they _naked_ in there? And _yeah_ they get out of those showers rubbed down in baby oil. Who the hell is he kidding with that.”

“Elliot,” Petey whispered urgently, without turning to them. “You’re rambling. You sound like me.”

It got them all laughing, all present, slowly and all of a sudden.

“No wonder you came back from his training camp jabbering and tripping over your own feet, H.”

“I don’t really wanna talk about any of—”

“Looking at them reminds me of those scenes in porn you fast forward,” Craig said. “You know, before the good stuff happens.”

He ignored Craig. While Elliot cracked up. And Petey leaned forward into their circle. “Let’s go over there.”

They all looked at Petey. Who was wine-red with a deep flush and slightly wild eyed, but still looked much more present than he had seen him in a while with Sean around. Petey blinked his dark liquid eyes at them. “We’re over here, and Sean’s over there. After that _heartbreaking_ interview, he needs _us_ . . .” Petey tipped his head, “ . . . over _there._ With him.”

The three of them looked at each other, then at Sean and his friends.

As if on cue, dance music came up. Some old school Nelly. And though some of those guys had moves, he looked over and saw that maybe except for a couple, those men were straight. Which, he quickly reminded himself, didn’t necessarily preclude them wanting to have sex with Sean. A fact he’d seen for himself on Sean’s patio.

Literally the nonsense he was thinking.

“Let’s go,” he said to Petey.

The NFL group was thickly bounded by selfie and Stories seekers, asking the players to say hi to their followers and all the rest. They came bearing drinks, having had the manager bring them a fresh round of whatever the players were having. But as they approached, Sean slowly stood from the small wooden table that had been supporting his weight. 

Not having taking his eyes off Sean, he saw that Sean’s weren’t on him but past his shoulder. Sean momentarily extended a finger at Craig.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

He put down where Sean had vacated, wordless as Sean relieved him of his drinks, setting them on the table and mumbling something to his friends, which he didn’t catch being that his mind had gone blank. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” Sean said quietly, and without a kiss, left with Craig, who was already leaving the group.

“Hola,” Petey said loudly, effervescently, and confidently to all within earshot. “Soy Jimenez. Y ustedes, amigos?”

“Hola, hermano,” said one of them, tall and built like a— well. And catching Petey’s attention, who, dropping his jaw dramatically, and very attractively, made them all laugh. 

“De donde _’res,_ ” Petey trilled, _grinning._

Petey only ever grinned at the potential of messy trouble.

“Louisiana,” the player said in English. “If you can believe it.”

“Where did you learn Spanish?” asked Elliot, who’d been translating for him.

_Hi, I’m Jimenez . And you, my friends? Hi, brother,_ the breathtakingly attractive one had replied, eliciting Petey’s gasp because, he supposed, not a lot of African American NFL players spoke Spanish? _Where’re you from?_ had been Petey’s last question.

Leaving both him and Petey to open up diplomatic channels, he sat on the edge of the small wooden table Sean had warmed and didn’t take his eyes from the trail Sean and Craig had burned into his vision heading for the bar’s back patio.

—

“I do have questions,” he said to Craig as soon as they were alone.

The bar’s outside patio was stuffed with people, some guys even whistling at him as he appeared. That seemed to amuse Craig, who actually spared a look at the perpetrators.

“That normal where you come from?” Craig asked.

Deeply offended, he ignored the guy. He’d learned to. He had too many important questions to ask anyway, to let the little things get in the way. Plus, already feeling that Craig considered him slow on the uptake on many things, he wasn’t about to let distractions not in his sphere of control bog him down.

While Craig cast amused glances at the shadowed men against the ivy covered stone walls, himself shadowed against the ivy covered walls in front of him, he spoke stonily to the side of Craig’s face.

“Why do you guys go to those places?”

Craig turned a deceptively casual gaze at him. Said nothing, only watched and waited. So he obliged him. 

“Blakes, I mean. And KV’s party, and— Bernal Arnez’s party. Why is that okay for men like you?”

“Men like me.”

“Yeah,” he said firmly, knowing he was reacting to Kevin Bendis and Troy Patterson but no longer caring. He was sick of them all.

"Men like you, who don’t think for a second about the lives of— of people who might not be as privileged as you. Who might find themselves at your fucking parties. You ever think it's not about how much they love being around you? Ever think about how complicated their lives might be?”

Relaxed against the ivy covered walls, darkness and shadow adorning him, Craig observed him. “How long have you been out, Sean?”

He ground up the rest of his words, looking away. After a while, listening to the stage whispers of the men not too far from him, clustered at a large rough-hewn table, smoking and drinking and speaking perfectly frankly about what they would do had he or Holden been theirs, he looked again at Craig.

“I guess I can’t speak for everyone.”

“Nor should you try.”

“But I wanna know. What’d you get out of it? All of you.”

Craig continued staring him. “It’s not rocket science.”

“Then what does _Holden_ get out of it?”

“You mean what he _used_ to get out of it.”

He dropped his eyes again, a crease he couldn’t remove in his brow. “Yeah.”

Into their dark, shadowed silence, Craig said, “That was meant to be a rhetorical statement.”

“Well, answer it anyway.”

"You think for a minute that Holden was making anyone unhappy?"

"That's not what I mean."

“Then what do you want to know exactly? How he could date so many other men besides you? Specifically, while you two were going out? He wasn't dating those men in spite of you, or because of you. Those men happened in an absence of you. I don't know if you even understand that."

He said nothing.

"I've known Holden for a decade and no one could have told me that this was what he had in store for him. This . . . need for you. You've made Elliot your mortal enemy when Elliot is the single thing standing between you and a hell you couldn’t cope with with his family.”

Craig stopped turned and was looking once more at the men at the far table, who were making their needs more fervently known by the minute. Their table was covered with bottles of alcohol. Craig was smiling in their direction. A couple of them had risen from their seats, running hands down their bodies and being both lewd and very vocal. They were fan-types of a kind he knew better than to give a second look at. But Craig was looking. As if, once done with him, he'd go over there and ask for their names. The same look he'd seen over that idiot photographer ex of Holden's called Paxton.

He'd fallen silent in the meantime. Now Craig looked straight at him.

"You know, what I’ve always found most interesting about you is that you came out of the NFL closet at all.”

He raised his eyes to him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I used to think it was about family and support. And maybe, for others. But not for you, I don't think. Especially because you had so much to lose.”

Craig then took his time, starting at the steamy hot mess of men a short distance from them. Before saying, "I guess it's interesting to see what for different people fear really is.” And then said nothing more.

Now only turning back to him, to look past his shoulder toward back into the bar.

Craig said, “I should probably get back inside. My drink’s likely getting watery.”

And with a smile, waited for him to let him pass. He moved aside, letting him pass.

Back inside the bar, his colleagues were in stitches. Crawling all over Petey and Elliot like they’d never heard jokes before. Both Petey and Elliot of whom were deep in blushing laughter. He’d never seen Elliot in such a state, laughing and long lashes batting and every other minute asking Emory, “What’s your name again? I’m really sorry . . .”

Holden was keeping his seat warm, anxious eyes on the passage from which he’d emerged. Standing as he approached, Holden wordlessly indicated that he come take his seat or else. He did so.

Settled back down, he took Holden by the hips and pulled him close, and Holden looked at him with the kind of hot dread of someone being told _Don’t look directly at the sun during an eclipse, it’ll still blind you._

Spreading his knees, he pulled him in even closer. While Holden stared at him, and the world seemed to submerge into the darkness around them, he whispered at him, “I like your T-shirt.”

Holden blinked owlishly at him. “You’d better not like it more than me.”

He caught his breath, those blue eyes seeming to be his whole world. “What’s happened to your hair,” he asked him softly. “It’s like you forgot to shower after . . . getting out of bed.”

Holden’s arms wrapped itself around his neck. “You I’d never do anything of the sort.”

He laughed, blushing, head to toe. The bar’s sound system just then kicked up Mary J. Blige promising there’d be no more drama in their lives.

“I love this song,” Holden whispered, making him laugh some more. And true to form, Holden began swaying, rolling a shoulder in a way he hadn’t seen outside of a Shelia E. video since teenage years. Swaying and bopping at him. 

“Go, ‘head,” he heard Briggs say.

Snorting, he help him by his hips, knowing Holden neither knew nor cared what he was doing. He pulled him closer between his knees, feeling excitement thrill through him. LED flashlights on cameras went nonstop. He didn’t care.

Holden swayed, completely out of rhythm, closer, and closer still. Until they were breath to breath, mouth to mouth. Staring into each other’s eyes. Then Holden stopped, was leaning in, tongue on his lips, then sliding his mouth against his. There were hoots and applause. If he never heard a single moment of applause again, he would die happy. Wet, hot, and God help, with a tiny amount of biting, Holden had him captive. Gasping into his mouth as he dug his fingers into him, but went right on kissing him.

“Now that is some gay shit right there,” Innohoff said.

Laughing, dropping his head, he tried to catch his breath. But Holden came after him, lowering his head to take his mouth, until he was gripping him tight enough to cause bruising. Transmitting his surrender. But arms around his head, Holden didn’t seem to care at all. As he pulled him closer, Holden pressed forward, mashing his cock into his solar plexus, like making his mind. Heart triple-timing it, feeling like his entire existence was nothing but a hard cock trying to enter him. He gripped holden, let him have his mouth, all of him.

“Damn,” Paulson said. “There’s Sean kissing a dude. It’s official, y’all.”

“What, you ain’t got no internet?”

He should have been laughing. Instead he was— well, trying not to fall into the arms of the most beautiful man alive. But also realizing that it was his very first time in front of his buddies. Not a chaste kiss but the real thing. Tongue and an unmissable semi-erection. Live and in person, like Paulson meant.

And he realized also that he had in fact wanted Holden to come tonight and to bring his friends with him, because he wanted them to know he wasn’t alone.

But now it seemed that it was himself that had needed to know.

•

In the morning, Holden was fast asleep. The T-shirt was still on, pushed up and hopelessly stretched over a pair of blue cotton pajama bottoms. He hoped Holden had a spare one, it looked too good on Holden to be considered a lost cause.

Sunlight streaked across his bed, and he stayed on its edge staring at Holden’s sleeping form. Curled up under the covers like a person unaware of protecting his heart.

It was laughable that he’d once thought he could move on from him. That he’d only think about him morning, noon and night, and that would somehow be okay, when in reality he’d spend the rest of his life pinning after him.

His ugly truth was that he would have been happy to continue as they had been all these years. Find a way to move forward. Because he knew what he had with this beautiful, fallen angel. Because theirs had always been a love affair made of nothing but pure air. Not one of convenience, desperation, curiosity, or just for the sake of it. Having had affairs in at least two of those categories, he would certainly know. But for him and Holden, there had never been a need for any kind of social scaffolding. No matter how flimsy, how invisible.

And push coming to shove, he would have lived in that space answerable to no one for the rest of his life. He would have found a way, and he would have done it.

But they were no longer having an affair. It was marriage now. And other lives were involved. 

A visualization of a complete circle.

He stood from the bed, finding his phone plugged in on a shelf there in his bedroom, unplugging it and checking his messages and missed calls. It was Saturday morning, his so-called long weekend already mostly gone. Maybe he should just hit the greens with whomever was left in town from last night. Warm up his game for next week.

Heading into the kitchen, he intended only for now only though to breakfast. He was going to cook up some runny English soft boiled yolk which, for some reason, Holden occasionally craved. There’d been some reference to it the night before at the bar and he thought he’d make it for Holden that morning. Not quite sure how it was made, he’d be checking YouTube. He would, however, be skipping a certain chef’s YouTube channel for the moment.

With the sounds of his pool cleaning crew below, he fired up a backup YouTube channel, bringing out the eggs and getting ready to roll.

Nothing remotely close to anything he’d planned happened to him for the next few days, however. 

He didn’t even end up spending the next couple of nights in LA.

In the middle of double tapping to forward the YouTube session, his phone buzzed.

And staring at lit up name with a beating heart, he was both petrified and not at all. Knowing this had been only a matter of time.

His warning instincts about that lunch had not been wrong.

Tapping to answer, he calmly said, “Hi, Cecelia.”

“Hi, Sean,” she said just as casually. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you so early.”

“Not at all.”

“Congratulations on your interview with Oprah. You were wonderful.”

“Aw, thank you, Cecelia.”

“Recall I mentioned that we ought to have a meal together soon? And you did say after Thursday.”

“Right on both counts.”

“Well,” she said, still casually. But he noticed that she had dropped her faux light tones. He’d noticed that from in front of her conservatory that Sunday.

“As it turns out,” she said. “I’ve just received an SOS to help launch the reopening of the San Francisco Opera House. The Wilson Family Foundation supports it with a general performing arts grant for community and education programs, as well as maintenance on the building itself and that sort of thing.”

“Uh huh,” he said.

“Well, it’s been closed for months of renovations and is now only being opened tomorrow night for the season. I apologize for such short notice.”

“No, not at all.”

“So would you care to join me as my guest? It would be overnight.”

Without missing a beat, he said, “I’d love to.”

“Perfect, Sean,” she said casually, like he’d passed a first test. “I’ll send a car for you. We’re staying at the Ritz-Carlton. You should arrive by noon. Lunch in my suite, say, one p.m.?”

“Sounds good.”

“Wonderful. Lots to talk about, I’m sure. See you then.”

He let the call disconnect from her end, and stared at his phone screen, at the YouTube channel reasserting itself in soft tones.

_Circle . . . shattered._

Maybe YouTube or the phone call hadn’t been as quiet as he’d hoped, for next thing, Holden was at his bedroom door, in a different T-shirt over the blue cotton pajama bottoms, eyelids still shut against the light.

“Does anyone actually wake first thing in the morning to listen to some noisy YouTube channel?”

“I’m making you soft boiled eggs,” he said.

Slowly entering the kitchen, Holden came until he was glued up against his back. 

Arms around his waist, forehead against the back of his head, Holden sank his hands into the front of his joggers. Slowly, softly, like putting them both into a trance, his fingers began drifting, scratching all around his cock.

There was long, drowsy silence. Lips against the back of his head, warm breaths in his hair. Then he could hear his words.

“Good morning, Sean Jackson,” Holden Wilson murmured.

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Good morning, beautiful.”

•


End file.
